Family Ties
by Milliecake
Summary: A small town haunting for the boys leads Dean into conflict with something equally as terrifying – their grandparents.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Family Ties

Author: Milliecake

Rating:T for language and graphic depictions

Summary: A seemingly straightforward small town haunting for the boys leads Dean into conflict with something equally as daunting – their grandparents.

Spoilers: Yes, lots. Now go watch every episode twice so I don't spoil anything for you

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did! Oooh hot flush...

Author's Notes: I couldn't find reference to the parents of either John or Mary Winchester in the show, so I'm using creative licence instead of fact.

OoOoO

"..._and the road becomes my bride  
I have stripped of all but pride  
So in her I do confide  
And she keeps me satisfied  
Gives me all I need_."

Mind heavy and full of sleep, Sam Winchester rested his tousled head against the cool glass of the impala's passenger window, listening drowsily to the moody, depressive strains of Metallica streaming faintly from the radio. He'd never admit it, not in a thousand years, but he was beginning to understand his older brother's love of the dark music, lyrics that could catch him off guard in a moment, strike a chord somewhere inside that would echo deeper down.

The road _had _become a companion, a constant in their discordant lives, something that wouldn't abandon them or for that matter, let them go. And although Sam knew the lifestyle they were currently living would never keep him satisfied, his brief taste of normality still lingering, those lyrics could well have been written for his brother.

A loud bang on the metal roof of the car jerked Sam from his thoughts and he scrambled upright in sudden fright, before slumping in relief as he heard Dean's chuckle.

"You asshole," he spat, clutching his chest.

"Rise and shine Sleeping Beauty," his brother drawled, sliding into the driving seat with breakfast in one hand, casually tossing a newspaper into his passenger's lap. "I think I got us another gig."

Scrubbing away the remnants of his earlier, restless slumber, Sam fumbled for the paper. "Jackass," he muttered, absently, as he blinked down at what appeared to be the local rag mag.

Dean simply grinned and took a sip from his styrofoamed cup, wincing as the hot liquid scalded his already puffy lower lip. "Ow goddammit."

Ignoring his fussy bitching, Sam unfolded the newspaper. A young woman stared with an American pie smile from the second page, cute in the cheerleader who marries the quarter back type of way, while another photo of the crime scene, scattered with the local law, sat underneath. But it was the stark headlines that caught Sam's attention.

"Twenty year old murder comes back to haunt town," he echoed, a frown marring his forehead. "The body of Amber Collins, 19, was discovered in the parking lot of Deighton Height's local town library in the early hours of Monday morning. The police are not ruling out that this may be a copy cat killing reminiscent of the murder of Colleen Haley over twenty years earlier."

"Did a little asking round," Dean said, passing Sam the second coffee. "Legend has it the town library is haunted by this Haley chick, murdered same location back in the eighties. Scattered reports of sudden chills, flickering lights, books falling off shelves by themselves, that whole run of the mill haunting thing. Nothing deadly though."

"Until now. So you're thinking woman in white? Maybe something's stirred up the ghost twenty years on?" Sam hesitated, looking up, "Deighton Heights, I know that name from somewhere."

"It's not in Dad's journal."

Lowering the paper, Sam glanced at his brother, noting the tired lines, the slightly slumped posture. Though he'd deny it to his last breath, Dean had to be hurting from the latest pounding he'd taken, a pissed off serial killer's ghost that had bludgeoned his victims with a golf club in life, before turning pro in the afterlife.

Sam had caught up to his older brother in a backroom of the local hospital, bruised, bleeding and wild eyed, but in fighting spirit, calling out the 'psycho son of a bitch who messed with his face'. Ten rounds of rocksalt later they'd beaten down the Tiger Woods wannabe, before salting then burning the bones, abandoned in a locker for some scientific study years before.

And now Dean was all for chasing off on another hunt when what they really needed was to find their father and get some rest along the way.

"But what's to say the cops aren't right on this one, it could be a copy cat," Sam suggested, feeling slightly guilty. He didn't need his premonitions to tell him the supernatural was somehow involved, his gut already shouting that out loud and clear. But he didn't know any other way to get Dean to back off once he'd caught the scent of some evil.

His brother paused sipping his coffee and raised a disbelieving eyebrow. "What, you wanna chance Officer Barbrady," he slapped the picture of the local law enforcement officer, "and his posse stumbling across a whacked out ghost. Come on man, local legend, confirmed sightings. It's definitely our area of shall we say, expertise."

"Dean…" Now Sam paused, searching for the words. He didn't want to deflate his brother's obvious enthusiasm, but there were other things to take into consideration. More worldly problems than vengeful spooks. "Look I'm not saying you're not right, but we're almost out of money and running low on gas and this town is like 200 miles out of our way. You said it yourself, we can't save everybody and we need to find Dad."

Again his brother stared at him like he'd just started speaking in tongues. For Dean's one-set hunter's mind, he might well have been.

"Dude, it's a side trip, that's all. We go in, burn ghost Barbie's bones and we're back on the main mission, back on track. What's the deal?"

Sam couldn't suppress a small, bitter laugh at that. "Since when have we ever been on track? We're no closer to finding Dad than we were six months ago." He took a steadying breath, before pushing quietly. "And you're exhausted."

"I'm fine." It was the standard automatic response and Sam could almost see his brother shutting down, the business like persona emerging in the wake of what could end up a potentially awkward conversation.

When it came to his wellbeing, Dean Winchester was as stubborn as their father. They fought, they got hurt, they pushed through the pain and continued onwards like good marines did. But their last few hunting trips had come one after another after another and Dean had come out worse for wear from the last one. Even Sam could see that, just like his beloved car, his brother was burning fumes.

_Deighton Heights_, Sam thought again, _Deighton Heights_, _Deighton Heights_…

The answer suddenly came to him and he couldn't help the grin that spread over his face. "Actually, you might be right," he told his brother, ignoring the surprised look Dean shot him. "I think this town might be just what we need."

"Ok, now you're scaring me," his brother said, deadpan. "Why the sudden turnabout? Some spooky vision hit you there Cordelia?"

Sam just smiled benevolently and gestured him to drive. Dean sighed and shook his head, but had moved to obey when both boys were distracted by the leggy brunette heading towards them from the diner. She went straight to Dean's window and he gave her a disarming grin.

"Hey Brad," she said, shyly, bending low enough to give them both and the entire street a not so shy view of her cleavage. "When we were talking earlier, I forgot to mention there's a motel just down the street in case you feel like…staying the night in town."

_Drool clear up in aisle nine_, Sam thought disgustedly as his brother practically leered at the woman. How Dean had managed to charm her in such short time, especially with the bruised lip and sliced cheekbone was as inexplicable as the things they hunted.

Then Dean flashed her his thousand dollar, cute-and-don't-I-know-it, smile.

_Oh so that's how_.

"You know," Dean began, shooting Sam a glance, "Sammy here was just saying we could do with a nice, warm, soft bed…to sleep in, of course."

"Of course," she echoed, with an equally predatorial look, fingering a strand of hair.

_Of course_. Sam rolled his eyes. She couldn't have signalled her availability more had she thrown off her bra and jumped in his brother's lap.

"So how about it?" Dean asked him, raising his eyebrows meaningfully, a pathetically hopeful look on his face.

Seeing that look, knowing Dean would have his way in more ways than one when it came to his overactive libido, Sam did the only thing he could. They had to get to Deighton Heights soon before another hunt called and cut that route off from them.

Reaching over, he placed an overly familiar hand on his brother's thigh, giving the girl a wide smile, before looking at a shocked, then annoyed Dean. His brother knew exactly what was coming and couldn't see a way to stop it.

"Oh but honey, we'll miss the Pride Festival," he all but cooed. Dean wasn't the only one comfortable enough to play the gay card if it meant humiliating his sibling. "And you know I'd prefer to be sleeping in our own bed than a motel's."

The woman backed off as if burned, looking stunned, then disappointed. "Oh, uh sorry," she said, awkwardly. "I didn't realise you two…uh, have a good…trip."

Then she was hurrying back to her pa's diner before Dean could protest, not looking back once.

Dean deliberately plucked Sam's hand from his leg. "I can't believe you just did that to me. Oh man..." He cast a longing glance at the diner's swinging doors. "That was some sweet piece of tail."

"Well, like you said _Brad_ we need to get to this ghost before it hurts anyone else," Sam said, smugly.

"Bitch."

"Ho."

Dean flipped him the bird, then swung the impala in a tight arc, pulling out to the road in a cloud of dust. "Just one thing, baby brother," he said, casually, as Sam started on his cooling coffee. "I get to be on top."

He shot his brother a grin as Sam spluttered and choked on his drink, before flicking the volume on the radio and drowning the car with the next track.

OoOoO

Deighton Heights proved to be the quintessential town, a place where everybody knew everybody else's business, where customers were greeted by name and where strangers were treated cordially if not warmly.

_Except leather clad, Chevy driving, out of towners apparently_, Dean thought with a frown as he leant casually against his car, collar turned up against the cold. He watched the people watch him as they passed by and wondered what the hell was with that.

Ok so maybe Sam was more the people person, the endearing, shirt wearing, college boy with the puppy dog eyes and earnest smile. Didn't help him get laid though. Mothered maybe, by women like Missouri but where was the fun in that.

And where the hell was his baby brother? Glancing at his watch for the fifth time, Dean pushed away from the car and scanned the street, just in time to see Sam emerge from the local teashop, a cat that caught the canary smile on his face.

"Just what are you up to Sammy boy?" Dean mused to himself, shoving cold hands into his pockets.

Ever since their imminent arrival in Deighton, Sam had practically begged Dean to give him ten minutes in town alone. No heading over to the town's police station with a fake reporter's ID and that Winchester charm. No knocking on the library doors or even rustling up a guesthouse for the night.

No, Sam was up to something and just like that whole faith healing racket up in Nebraska Dean had a bad feeling he wasn't going to like it.

"And just where the hell have you been?" he demanded, belligerently as Sam crossed the street to him. "I've been freezing my ass off out here."

"Ok how does this sound," Sam said, in way of answer, giving him that patented, eager, you can't say no to this, look. "One room each, laundry service, all the hot water you can stand and home cooked food?"

"Sounds expensive." No way was he digging into his dwindling cash supply for a house run by Deighton's answer to Martha Stewart.

"It's free Dean."

"Then it sounds perfect."

Anything with the word free in it sounded good right now. They needed a break from financial troubles and somehow Dean doubted he'd be playing high stakes blackjack down at the ladies bridge club. He paused, opening the impala's door. "You got friends here or something?"

"Or something," Sam hedged, climbing into the car and Dean fought the urge to grab him in a headlock.

"Fine, whatever," he said, giving up and sliding into the driver's seat. It was getting to be a habit letting his brother do his own thing, maybe a bad one, but he trusted Sam with his life. And it wasn't like he was going to turn down any place offering a bed for free that wouldn't aggravate his sore ribs or bruised chest.

Plus he knew Sam missed his friends, missed ordinary people who didn't end up blood spattered and beaten at the end of a day's work, whose conversations didn't finish with 'let's find the bones and burn those suckers.' And Dean had to admit, some of Sam's friends hadn't been all that bad, like that Becky chick who had actually been kinda hot…

"…run by one Mrs Rubins," Sam was saying as he flipped through his notebook and Dean gave himself a little shake. "She's the one who discovered the body."

"The librarian?"

"That's what I just said," Sam replied. He casually gave his brother the once over. "You sure you're ok?"

"Fine, keep going."

He used the dismissive tone he knew would get Sam to back off, for now at least. The one that sounded eerily like their old man when he'd been injured on a job or when Dean had pressed him for difficult answers.

It still worked, up to a point.

Sam stared at him for a moment, then allowed his gaze to slide back to his notebook. "Mrs Rubins is also married to the local officer in charge of the investigation so maybe with a little sweet-talking…"

"We can get the inside deal on this killing," Dean finished. "Two birds, one stone, I get it. And nothing like a little Winchester charm to get the old girl to give up the goods."

"Uh Dean?" Why did Sam sound so soothing now? "Maybe you should let me do the talking. She sounded kinda elderly, fragile even, and we don't want to scare her off."

Catching a glance of himself in his rear-view mirror, Dean let out an annoyed breath. With the cut above his left cheekbone and split lip, not to mention the dark, stranger's eyes that stared out tiredly, he knew now why he'd been getting so many stares.

Besides, Sam did that whole 'please mother me' thing far better.

Still didn't help him get laid though.

END OF CHAPTER ONE


	2. Chapter 2

See Chapter One for details… 

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!

OoOoO

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave." The severe, grey-haired woman glared frostily down her bespectacled nose at both boys, unmoved by the full blast of the younger Winchester's boy-scout smile.

Deighton's library had been mere minutes from closing when they entered, the large, draughty hall empty of patrons who had no doubt headed for warm homes before the onset on dusk. For Sam, it kindled memories of Stanford, the musty smell of books set against the scent of polish and floor cleaner, the almost reverent hush that would earn him a stern reprimand should he dare to break it. It almost felt like home.

But fond memories had been brought to an abrupt end by their first encounter with the formidable Mrs Rubins.

"Fragile my ass," Dean muttered under his breath.

Sam shot him a warning look as his older brother lounged against the counter much to Mrs Rubins', obvious chagrin. Ok so Dean had wanted to play the libraries standard inspection card, but Sam had refused. It might have bought them some time in the library itself but he had a feeling the daunting librarian would still have been as cold towards them as the Haley ghost itself.

And Dean didn't realise yet that any racket they tried in town could wind up biting them in the ass later on.

"I'm sorry, but we just want to ask…" Sam began, placating.

"We've had enough of your kind in here over the last twenty years," Mrs Rubins interrupted, stoutly. "Strangers prying into things where they don't belong, disturbing the peace of this good town. And its folk. So mind me young man when I say I _will _call the police…"

"Hey whoa," Dean jumped in, hands held out, no doubt the mention of heat attracting his attention. "We're not here to cause problems, just looking for a book to read while in town. My brother has a morbid sense of curiosity though, wanted to ask about the murder. That's all."

"And what book exactly were you looking for?" she asked, with a raised eyebrow that suggested the only kind of books he read came with sordid pictures.

Sam took exception to that look. Sure his brother hadn't had the schooling Sam had, hunting with their Dad and looking after his kid brother rather than study for exams or even attend classes. But Dean could read, though Sam was certain the only type of material on his brother's list these days was newspaper obituaries and websites on the weird and unexplained, looking for ways to kill their latest creepy.

But Dean surprised him, giving Mrs Rubins a calm look. "Cuckoo's Nest, Ken Kesey. It's a classic. Right up your alley too."

Sam looked at him in surprise. He knew Dean could be a slouch in the brains department, but he had a strange feeling that this was one book his brother might actually have read.

Mrs Rubins regarded Dean with a tight-lipped grimace, the public librarian in her no doubt warring with an urge to remove the scruffy young man from her sanctuary. Then she nodded in the direction of the adult literary section. "I believe we have a copy on the shelf."

Sam ducked to hide his smile as Dean nodded to her, shoving one hand into a pocket as he wandered away. He looked about as comfortable in such a place of learning as Sam did in a biker bar, but they needed an EMF reading before Mrs Rubins decided to kick them out.

"Look, uh, I'm sorry about before, asking questions," Sam said, trying again to melt that stone cold exterior. She harrumphed, slamming a book closed with more force than necessary, but he persisted. "We're here to visit our grandparents. You might know them, they live up on Whitmore Lane?"

Now Mrs Rubins' ears virtually pricked up and she stared at him long and hard, as if trying to place his resemblance. He met her stare with as much open honesty as he could muster.

"The Madisons," he offered, helpfully, after a moment and suddenly her look changed from hostile curiosity to cool acceptance. "They moved here three years ago from New Hampshire."

"I know them," she acceded. "I didn't realise they were expecting family this time of year."

He shrugged sheepishly. "It's a surprise. My brother," he glanced back towards the literary section, "hasn't seen them in years. So it's kind of a surprise for him too."

One Sam hoped wouldn't get him a swift, but brutal put down from his older brother. Dean was armed but Sam doubted it would come to anything near a shot in the kneecap for this little deceit. He hoped.

"So, when we heard about this murder, we were concerned," he continued, trying to catch her eye as she stamped the next book. "I mean, if there's a killer out there, we'd like to be prepared."

Now she sighed impatiently. "The killer of that silly girl is long gone if you ask me. It was a drifter twenty years ago, it'll be a drifter again. The wrong sorts, coming into our town and stupid girls letting them have their way, leaving us with their 'problems'."

Her callous attitude of the girl, Amber, whose body she herself had discovered took Sam aback. But it seemed her vehemence was loosening her tongue. And it also explained why he and Dean had been getting the evil eye from the townsfolk. Strangers weren't a welcome sight after a shocking, unsolved murder, especially those upon whom the finger of suspicion could easily fall.

"Problems?" he echoed.

"Bastards." It took a moment before he realised she wasn't cussing, but referring to illegitimate children, an old fashioned sentiment. "You may as well hear it now, it's all over town anyway and your grandparents will no doubt tell you."

"She was pregnant." It wasn't a question. A thought occurred, "That other girl, Colleen Haley? Was she pregnant too?"

"I wouldn't know about that, but it wouldn't have surprised me. It was known about town back then that she was seeing that no good drifter, Crocker. We knew he was a petty thief, up to no good. My husband tried to run him off a few times, but like backed up sewage he always came back." She fiercely stamped another book. "Her father was devastated by it, didn't deserve such a whore for a child, poor man."

Sam floundered for a moment, not quite sure what to say in the wake of her heartless comments. "Did they catch Crocker?" he asked, instead.

"Oh yes." She seemed almost viciously satisfied by that. "Caught and tried him for murder. He denied it of course, but then he'd just turned 18, old enough for the death penalty. It was carried out twelve years ago last April if I recall."

_Great_, Sam thought, resisting the urge to put his head in his hands. They had just destroyed one rampaging ghost murderer, now it looked like they were onto number two if Crocker's spirit was somehow involved in all this.

Going on a hunch, he dared one final question. "Is that when these so called hauntings started? After he was executed?"

"Young man my patience is exceeded," she snapped, perceptibly furious. "I do not want to hear any more about that nonsense. We have enough of it with the devil worshipping trash that visit here, looking for…ghosts and goblins."

But there was a strange uneasiness in her eyes, Sam saw. She knew something, or had seen or felt something. Unsurprising considering she worked in the very place Colleen Haley had been murdered, whose restless ghost no doubt wandered the empty aisles.

Anything he might have said was silenced as Dean strode out from the shelves, his grim look telling his little brother all he needed to know. They definitely had supernatural activity.

"Better hit the road, Sammy," he said, brusquely.

"And where is the book you wanted?" Mrs Rubins demanded.

"Shucks, forgot my library card," Dean shot back, with an insincere shrug. "Maybe next time." He hit the glass door backwards, practically rolling his eyes at Sam and a blast of cold air entered the library.

"Well, thank you for your time," Sam said, quickly, to a glaring Mrs Rubins who ignored him.

She had been helpful, if unpleasant, he thought as he hurried after his brother. Standing by the impala Dean was tossing his homemade EMF detector onto the backseat.

"Man, would I love to shove that stamp where the sun don't shine," he remarked and Sam let out a bark of laughter. "So what did you get from Nurse Ratchet back there?"

Sam nodded at the detector. "You go first."

Dean stared at him for a moment. "You know, this top dog crap is getting old Sammy. _What have you got_?"

Bit out in a stern tone brooking no argument, but Sam smiled ambiguously and nodded at the impala. "Get in the car, I'll explain on the way."

"On the way to where!" Now Dean was exasperated and growing pissed, but he slid into the car anyway.

"To where we're staying while we're here in Deighton."

Dean took a calming breath. "So help me, if it's that old lady's house I'm gonna kick your scrawny hide from here to California."

Sam couldn't help but laugh again. "Don't worry Dean, you're gonna love this."

OoOoO

He was going to hate it.

Sam had a reassuring smile plastered to his face as they pulled up at the large, distinguished house, the warm lights from within beckoning. Dean raised an eyebrow, whistling silently in appreciation. Whoever these friends were, they had money.

"Fancy neighbourhood," he commented, checking out the street as he hopped out of the car. "Your kinda place, huh college boy?"

"Beats a motel," his brother replied, simply, running long fingers through the disarray that was his hair in an attempt to make himself presentable. "Dean, hold up…"

Before Dean could set foot on the path up to the house, Sam was straightening his leather jacket, brushing invisible dust from the sleeves, examining the result with a critical eye.

_Ropes, holy water and cross in the trunk_,_ check,_ Dean thought. How did one go about exorcising the obviously evil neat freak demon that had possessed his brother?

"Dude you are seriously starting to creep me out here," he warned, slapping away Sam's fussing hands.

"Sorry," Sam replied, with a grimace, probably over the fact that Dean still looked like he'd been in a bar fight. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be. After you, Miss Manners."

He followed Sam up to the front door, casually watching the street. Never hurt to get the lay of the land and most neighbourhoods like this both he and his car stood out like sore thumbs.

After ringing the bell, Sam grabbed him without warning and thrust him forwards, making it clear he wanted Dean of all people to do the meet and greet.

"Sam what the f…" he began, just as the door abruptly swung open.

The cuss word he had been about to utter was forcibly swallowed in the wake of the elderly couple that met him. Something about these people that still could do that to him, he guessed.

Heck, they just looked at him and he felt eight years old again, the wild kid who had resented their interference, the trouble they had caused to him and Sam and Dad.

The people who had tried to break up what was left of his family.

He was going to kill Sam.

END OF CHAPTER TWO


	3. Chapter 3

See Chapter One for details… 

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!

A/N: Cheers for all the reviews, glad you guys are enjoying reading as much as I am writing : )

OoOoO

_Eighteen years ago_...

"But Dad, _why _do we have to go?"

The plaintive tones of a confused and hurt child caused John Winchester to abandon his packing and move to the bed, holding out arms that his son eagerly fled into.

Hugs, kisses goodnight, the pony ride on Daddy's back...they had all but vanished in the last four years and Dean would eagerly take whatever affection was on offer. He wasn't a baby like Sam who still needed to be coddled, on whom Dean could lavish his own childlike affection, but still, the big arms wrapped around him at that moment comforted him, made him feel secure.

And if there was one thing he had learned since Mom had died, it was that none of them were safe. Nightly terrors had become the norm, the things that went bump in the night terrifying the eight year old until Dad bumped back at them with fire and salt and holy water, and sometimes a gun.

"I'm sorry son," John said, resting his head on top of his little boy's hair. "It's out of my hands."

Dean pulled back, saw Dad's face looking like it did when he talked of Mom, which was hardly ever now. Sometimes Dean didn't like to think about her either. He had memories of her still, but they were vague, just a blur of long blonde hair and a loving smile, but nothing solid, nothing real except the pictures his father had rescued after the fire.

But even so, Dean knew he'd lost something special when she'd died, something beautiful that she'd taken with her.

"I have to say goodbye to Peter," he realised suddenly, with a pang.

Peter was his best friend, he lived across the street and went to the same school as Dean. In the afternoons and weekends they would hang out together and play soccer, before Dean's father called him in before dark. And Peter wasn't small like Sammy, whose little legs couldn't keep up with his big brother.

"You can't Dean," came the crushing, unequivocal reply. "We can't let anyone know we're leaving."

To his young mind, that one command had seemed grossly unfair to Dean and fat tears had threatened to spill over as his Dad stroked his hair. But Dean had swallowed them back, biting his lip. Only babies like Sam cried.

"Don't cry, don't cry," John had whispered, heartbroken. "Your mother would want you to be brave. Be brave Dean."

Then Sammy had started wailing, almost as if he was feeling Dean's pain, and Dad had left without another word.

It wasn't fair. They had a new home now, one without closets or dark places under the bed. Where the windows and doors were always bolted and lined with salt, and wards to fend off evil spirits were placed in every room. Dad could leave them to go off Hunting without fear for their safety now that Sam was getting bigger and Dean could look after him alone.

And now they had to leave again.

Dean slipped under the bed covers, but unlike most children, he knew they wouldn't protect him from the bad things that lurked in the darkness. He gradually fell asleep to the sound of his dreamcatcher clinking softly overhead...

Only to be woken later on by John speaking loudly downstairs, in an angry tone that scared the young boy. Worried that something might have wormed its way inside the house and that Sam might be in danger, Dean peeked over the balcony, relieved to see his father was only on the phone.

"Theo I swear if you come near either of my boys I will make you sorry. You are _not_ taking them away from me. For God's sake, they've all I've got left." A pause. "Call your lawyers, do whatever the hell you want but stay away. And Molly too. Mary wouldn't want this." Another pause, "She was my wife!"

Then more softly, so Dean had to strain on tiptoes to hear, "I loved her and something killed her. Some _thing_. And you can't even begin to protect my boys from it."

He slammed the phone down so hard Dean jumped, preparing to flee back to the safety of his bed, when Dad covered his eyes and slowly slid down the wall, shaking. Biting his lip, Dean descended the stairs, his barefeet making no sound as he crept cautiously over to his father to place a small hand on his shoulder. John looked up abruptly, too quickly to cover his tears, his agony.

"Don't cry Daddy," Dean echoed, in a small, frightened voice, the childish appellation testament to his fear. Dad had never cried except when Mom had died.

Then John had grabbed him in a tight embrace, hugging his boy as if he'd never let go. "Don't leave me son," he whispered, fiercely. "Don't ever leave me. I wouldn't survive without you or Sammy."

"I won't," Dean solemnly promised, wrapping his arms around his father's neck.

"Goddamn them," John had hissed. "Goddamn them for doing this to us, making us run."

"Who Dad?" Dean whispered, with large eyes. Was it one of the dark things that their father hunted? It wouldn't be the first time they had fled when things became too dangerous for the boys. But their Dad had always returned later to kill off the monster, refusing to leave a job half-finished.

John sighed, wiping his eyes. "It's your grandparents. They want custody." As his son wrinkled his brow in confusion, he tried to explain in words a child could understand, "They want to be like me and your Mom to you and Sammy. They don't want me near you...they think I'm bad for you Dean."

And then the night of the fire had come rushing back to Dean, the night they had lost Mom. Since then he had been terrified something would take his Dad away too. John Winchester had always been a Superman-like figure to his oldest child, but Dean was maturing fast and was beginning to see that for a lie. And if their Dad was taken too, who would protect Sam? He knew he was too little to keep his baby brother safe all by himself.

He clung onto his father, fingers digging into Dad's shirt, stifling the whimpers that threatened to emerge.

"They just don't understand," his father had said, brokenly, rubbing his child's back. "Our world isn't their world anymore. And you'll never know how sorry I am that you'll never be a part of it son."

OoOoO

_Present..._

"Dean?" Theodore Madison was peering at the two cold and bedraggled boys who had appeared on their steps, but his startled look was reserved for the older of the two.

Sam nudged his brother who seemed to be having a deer caught in the headlights moment. It did the trick and Dean closed his mouth, regaining his composure.

"Theo, Molly." Tight-lipped, he nodded briefly to each of their grandparents, jamming his hands into his coat pockets, not offering any more.

To Sam he looked like all he wanted to do was take the steps three at a time back down to the road, jump in the impala and speed away before hugging became a life or death issue. Patting his shoulder, amused, Sam moved passed him, not abashed in the slightest when Theo threw him a hearty embrace and Molly hugged him, then stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek.

"Hey there grandma, grandpa," Sam said to them, softly. "I'm really sorry for the short notice, we were passing through and thought we'd stop by and say hi. If it's any trouble at all we can find a guesthouse for the night…"

"Not another word Sam." Theo's rich voice brooked no argument. "You are both welcome here day or night. I thought John would have at least made that clear to you."

"After all, you are our daughter's children," Molly added, reaching out to usher them in.

Dean's palpable reluctance to enter was cunningly subverted by her herding technique because his brother looked stunned to be suddenly standing inside the house before he had a chance to turn down their generosity.

Sam couldn't understand why he was so reluctant to be spending time with their extended family. They'd never seen much of their grandparents growing up and to Sam, they represented a world entirely alien from the one they had lived in with Dad.

A world full of possibilities, of stability and love. Of staying in one place rather pulling up stakes every time their Dad got a new lead or discovered a new evil to hunt and kill. A world without guns and crosses and holy water, of endless motels and farewells to brief friends.

And then there was the delight of cards for Christmas and Easter, presents for birthdays that Dad sometimes forgot. Of course, none of those things reached him or Dean on the day intended, their father was too careful and a permanent address non-existent. But apparently John Winchester had set something up so his boys would at least reap the benefits of having wealthy grandparents.

And a year before he graduated high school, Sam had managed to contact these mystery benefactors of whom neither Dad nor Dean would speak. They hadn't been the monsters he had been brought up to believe, merely a traditional couple still grieving for the loss of their only daughter.

People who just wanted to get to know their grandchildren and lavish upon them the kind of love that they could no longer give to Mary.

"Uh look, maybe I should just..." Dean was saying and Sam instantly recognised it as a prelude to a getaway plan.

"We appreciate you letting us stay," Sam interrupted, giving his brother a firm look. "Right Dean?"

Somehow, he knew Dean was swearing silently at him by the glare, but Sam just smirked, lapping it up. Anything that could make his supposedly badass brother embarrassed or awkward was worth it.

Shaking his head, Dean turned to surreptitiously size up the place, exits, entrances, items handy for bludgeoning his little brother to death with no doubt, while Sam mentally whistled at his grandparents' new place.

He knew Mom had come from a wealthy, New England family, but also knew she hadn't spoken to them in over three years the night she died. John hadn't exactly endeared himself to them either and Sam couldn't help but see so much of that in Dean. Both men walked their own path, refusing to balk or break when it came to other people.

But Dean had learned to lie, to charm like a seasoned con-artist using his good looks and fast tongue to get him where he needed to go. He'd once told Sam sincerity was dangerous, that once you played it, you couldn't turn back, that it could leave you weak and wide open.

_The truth hurts, Sammy_, he said. _Most people, they'd rather have the lie._

"I'll go finish supper," Molly was saying, smoothing down her apron. "It should be ready any minute."

She patted Theo as she moved back to the kitchen, the smell that wafted out from behind the door heady and delicious and Sam couldn't help but recall the days when Jess would cook for him. He was no slouch in the kitchen either, but there was something about food prepared so lovingly, her little flourishes, the thoughtful touches of candles and good china and fine wine.

And he didn't know how much longer he could stomach the junk food that Dean and his iron-cast stomach seemed to thrive on.

"Maybe we could help," he suggested, but Theo chuckled.

"I'm afraid your grandmother's not one for letting us menfolk into her domain," he told them. "Now, if you hand me your car keys, I'll head out to grab your things and bring them inside."

It was an innocuous offer but Sam realised in sudden worry what his grandfather might actually discover inside the trunk. Weaponry of a size enough to arm a small militia and registered under a bogus name to boot. The startled look Dean shot him told him his brother had guessed the exact same thing.

"No," both brothers said, in unison, before Sam hastily added, "We don't want you going to any trouble, grandpa."

Theo stared them both down with a frown that suggested he wasn't fooled. "You boys hiding something in that car?"

Sam opened his mouth, unsure how he could even begin to lie to a man he respected, whose respect meant a lot to him. As usual it was Dean with the smooth and cocky reply.

"Chick mags, you get what I'm saying Theo?" he said, with a sly, slightly embarrassed grin. "I'm pretty sure Molly doesn't want that kinda thing in her house."

Theo folded him arms, unmoved. "Son, I may be old but I'm not stupid. You had a smart mouth on you as a child and I see John never bothered to straighten you out. So...keys." He held out his hand, his look suggesting that the mountain had better come to Mohammed or else.

Dean was obviously out of ideas from the 'now what' glare he shot his brother, but Sam could only shrug. Reluctantly, his older brother dug into his pocket, hefting the keys before dropping them into Theo's implacable grip.

"Yeah well, no joyriding in her Theo," he muttered, in defiance.

Theo chuffed out what might have been either a laugh or a snort of disappointment, then disappeared out the door.

The moment he was gone, Dean rounded on Sam.

"What the hell are you thinking Sam?" he demanded in a low, angry voice, then pointed a finger at the kitchen door. "Bringing us here, to these people?"

"'These people?'" Sam echoed, taken aback. "They're our _grandparents_ Dean. Family."

"No," Dean bit back. "Our family is me, you and Dad. Theo and Molly aren't a part of that. They never were."

"Because Dad would never let them!" His own temper threatening to flare, Sam lowered his voice in case Molly could overhear. "They tried Dean, but Dad kept us on the move so much..."

At that his brother took on a guarded look, one that Sam had learned to read over the years. Dean knew something, was hiding something from him.

"What?" Sam demanded, folding his arms in a move reminiscent of Theodore Madison. "You think there was something wrong in them wanting to look after us while Dad was out Hunting? Because let me tell you, we'd have been a hell of a lot safer."

"Oh grab a clue here Sammy," Dean whispered fiercely, disgustedly. "You think if something came after us, they'd have been able to stop it? With what? Theo's walking stick and Molly's doilies?"

"Maybe those things wouldn't have come after us in the first place," Sam pointed out, pleased at his rationale. "Dad pissed off a lot of those monsters. Come on Dean, don't you ever wonder what it would have been like to have had a proper home, a normal family?"

"No and you know why? Because Dad needed us."

"For what? Bait? Cause I sure as hell know it wasn't for drinking buddies since we were _kids_." Sam took another calming breath. "For God's sake Dean, we grew up thinking Poltergeist was a documentary and the Exorcist a how-to guide, that should at least tell you how screwed up we were."

"And you'd rather have had all this I suppose." Dean gestured derisively at the room.

At that Sam was rendered speechless. Why was it so hard for his older brother to understand that Sam wasn't cut out for the Hunting life. For twenty years they'd lived together, fought together and for much of that time he'd been, as Dean had so cutely put it, like Marilyn from the Munsters, craving normality over shoddy motels and silver bullets and constant life or death situations.

The months the brothers had spent together again on the road hadn't changed that, nor had Jess' murder. Sam realised with something akin to sorrow that Dean didn't realise he intended to leave again once they found the killer. Like Deighton, it was a side trip on his road to normality, a deliberate wrong turn that he hoped would bring him some peace from his guilt over Jessica's death.

"You know I would," he answered his brother, honestly. Most people might prefer a lie over the truth, but he knew Dean would take the truth any day. "You know me Dean, and you know how much I hated our lifestyle."

"Yeah you bitched about it enough."

Whatever reply Sam was about to retort with was quashed as Theo came back in through the door, dropping their packs off at the bottom of the stairs. Sam stared at him in some trepidation, Dean looking trapped and ready to form another smart lie, but the older man just raised his eyebrows expectantly.

Sighing silently in relief that he hadn't discovered their hidden cache of weapons, Sam glanced at his brother. They had to talk, this wasn't something Dean could just shrug off like a close call or minor injury. It was going to become an issue at some point, a 'chick flick moment' whether Dean was comfortable with that or not.

"Why don't you boys go wash up and I'll see what's keeping Molly?" Theo suggested, perhaps sensing the tension, before heading towards the kitchen.

Sam snagged his brother's coat sleeve before Dean could walk away from him. With the foul mood his brother was in, he had a bad feeling dinner wasn't going to turn out too well. "I know you're not happy with this," he said, almost apologetically. "But please Dean, try and get to know these people. They do care about us."

"Huh."

The non-committal grunt wasn't what Sam hoped for. "Just...try and be nice, ok?" he pleaded, with the persuasive look that usually got him his way with Dean, at least when they'd been growing up.

Dean turned to face him, visibly impatient. "Oh I will be," he promised, darkly. "Just enough to get what I can out of them about this murder and the library haunting. And if you wanna play the good grandson, be my guest, just don't expect me to pucker up to these people and like it."

_Yup_, Sam realised in dismay as his brother stalked off, _dinner was going to be very bad._

END OF CHAPTER THREE


	4. Chapter 4

See Chapter One for details… 

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!

OoOoO 

The brittle silence was intermittently broken by the chink of crockery, steaming bowls of vegetables placed on the dining table between the brothers. Slouched in his chair, Dean was brooding as he toyed with his fork and, to Sam's consternation, deliberately ignoring his little brother who was attempting gauge his mood. Far from appearing the cocksure older brother, at that moment he reminded Sam of nothing more than a sullen, rebellious teenager, something Dean had never permitted himself to be. He'd been too determined to play the good a son, the perfect soldier, to allow things like raging hormones and puberty to get in the way of Hunting with their Dad.

Instead, he'd left it to Sam to be the stubborn, wilful kid who spoke back to their father, who fought constantly with his only parent through the growing pains of adolescence on his way to maturity and eventual freedom. Sam had lost count of how many times Dean had been forced to step in and play the peacemaker, defending Dad's decisions to Sam, respectfully deflecting the brunt of Dad's anger and frustration at his mutinous, youngest son.

Now their roles were suddenly reversed and Sam was beginning to discover that being caught in the middle of a feuding family was no picnic. No wonder Dean had recalled Sam's childhood grievances with their father differently after being the arbitrator of so many arguments, most of which Sam had initiated.

But if Dean had managed to bring an uneasy, if unstable, peace between Sam and their father, Sam was determined to do no less. His brother deserved to get to know his grandparents despite his steadfast indifference, no doubt ingrained by whatever Dad had told him about the Madisons.

At the head of the table, Theo brought his hands together in preparation for saying Grace as Molly took her own seat and bowed her head. Their grandfather cleared his throat meaningfully when Dean showed no signs of following suit and Sam was forced to gently nudge his big brother under the table. It was enough to startle Dean out of whatever was weighing on his mind and Sam could almost visibly see his brother pull himself together, no doubt a mental shake to get his ass in gear.

_That's right Dean_, Sam attempted to mentally soothe his brother. _It's just another job, you can get through this without being an idiot and I won't have to worry_.

"Lord," Theo began, loudly, "we give thanks for both the meal we are about eat and the blessing of once again having family here in our home. We thank you for bringing Sam and Dean to us safely," he paused, no doubt thinking of Dean's visible injuries, "if not whole, that we may show them guidance onto the path of righteousness. Amen."

The others echoed his Amen and began to dig in. Sam closed his eyes as he tasted the first bite of their meal, savouring flavours that for once hadn't been processed or dunked in fat. He'd forgotten how good a cook Molly was, though anything was better than roadside diners where everything came with a side order of grease.

Sliding a glance at his brother to see if he was appreciating the cooking just as much, Sam was disappointed that Dean appeared more interested in hunting down wayward peas and viciously spearing them with his fork. And when Dean, who would shamelessly pilfer the buffet at a wake, turned down food, Sam knew it was a very bad sign.

But if Molly or Theo noticed their eldest grandson's lack of appetite, they didn't remark upon it, instead attempted to maintain that everything was perfectly fine and normal, that they were all having a civil, pleasant meal together as a family.

And for his part Sam tried to pretend that he wasn't going crazy over his brother's distant attitude, that his jaw wasn't starting to ache from the forced smile.

"This food is fantastic, grandma," Sam said, at last, when the silence became too stretched, too unbearable. "I can't remember the last time we ate this well."

"Why thank you Sam," Molly accepted, pleased.

Before the deafening silence could return, Sam aimed another kick under the table, this time less gentle and Dean jerked, giving him a 'what the hell' glower. Sam subtly jerked his head towards their grandmother, hoping Dean would catch the hint.

"Uh yeah," his brother spoke up. "This is just great. Thanks."

"And thank you Dean," Molly said again, graciously.

Dean cleared his throat, shifting in his chair and Sam instantly recognised it as a prelude to getting down to business. With a silent sigh, he agreed that it was probably for the best. Dean wasn't warming to their grandparents at all and there was little point trying to force the issue before he was ready to let down his defences and at least try to accept them.

"So we heard about the murder," his big brother began. "Kinda shocking in a small town like this huh?"

"Yes, it is terrible," Molly agreed, shaking her head. "No one can really believe it's happened. And to such a sweet young girl."

"One of the reasons we moved here," Theo said, "was to get away from all the drugs and violence and sordidness. Still, Howard Rubins thinks it was a drifter, they get a few like that pass through every year."

"Howard Rubins?" Sam echoed. "He's in charge of the investigation isn't he?"

"Yup and a damned fine officer," Theo said, proudly. "A good friend too. We've known him for what…?"

"Twenty years dear," Molly offered.

Dean and Sam exchanged a silent look that spoke volumes. Sam could almost see Dean's eyes light up the way they always did when the brothers caught a break on a case. And he could see his brother's mind spinning, that maybe, _maybe_, visiting their grandparents hadn't been such a bad idea after all.

"He spoke so highly of this little town that we finally decided to move here," Theo finished, with a self-satisfied air.

"Yeah, that's nice," Dean said, brusquely, and Sam cringed, praying his brother's irreverence would slip beneath their grandparents' radar. "The papers didn't say much about the murder though. Did your friend give you any more details?"

"Well, we're not supposed to talk about it," Molly told him, piling more vegetables onto his barely touch plate. "Eat up dear before it gets cold."

The aggrieved look Dean shot her almost made Sam smile, but he recognised that the baton had been passed to him to keep the chatter going. While Dean reluctantly began to finally eat something, Sam set his cutlery down.

"We understand why the police are keeping the investigation under wraps," he said, folding his hands. "But we just want to make sure you're both ok."

"That is so sweet of you, I'm sure we're fine though," Molly replied, patting his hands and Sam managed his most dubious and unsure look. He could see her wavering and she looked at her husband. "Theo it wouldn't hurt to reassure them now, would it? Please dear, they've come such a long way to make sure we were alright."

"Well, I suppose Howard won't mind, seeing as you're family," Theo said, sitting back in his chair. "There's not really much more to tell though. Mrs Rubins, that's Howard's wife, found the body last Monday morning. Looks like the girl had been butchered inside out from what Howard says."

"Nasty," Dean commented, wryly, around a mouthful of food.

"It's a double tragedy for that family too," Molly added.

"How so?" Sam asked, curious. Sometimes, the devil really did lay in the details and the more information he could garner, the better prepared they could be.

"That poor girl's mother was admitted to the local psychiatric hospital two years ago," she replied. "Some kind of breakdown. The family couldn't afford the bills of course, but somehow Dr Vaughn persuaded the board to allow her mother to stay. Daniel is such a good man, so kind that he even treated her himself."

"Out of the pure goodness of his heart I suppose," Dean said, dryly.

Sam almost covered his eyes at his brother's wayward mouth. It had taken them both into and out of trouble on many an occasion, but this wasn't his usual audience of strangers who were either charmed by his subtly mocking humour or offended by it.

These were their grandparents, people whose opinions meant a lot to Sam. He could only put Dean's flippancy down to the fact his brother was exhausted, in pain and pissed at the position he'd found himself in. Dean rarely took well to being out of control in a situation.

"That's right son," Theo was telling Dean, sternly. "He helps out a lot of troubled and unhappy people. Some of whom were just plain brought up wrong."

Sam winced at the obvious meaning running through Theo's words. His grandfather had been deeply disapproving when Sam had called six months before to let them know why he was no longer at Stanford, that he had in fact embarked on a road trip with his big brother after Jessica's death. They had always pegged Dean as a bad influence, a 'disturbed young man' Theo had indelicately put it when Dean had remained staunchly supportive of John Winchester's beliefs in 'claptrap and hogwash'.

Dean set down his fork and there was a challenge in that small gesture. "Well hell, maybe I should pay this doc a visit then," he said, with deceptive lightness. "Though I should warn you the last shrink Sam and I visited had some anger management therapies that just didn't quite do it for me. I think Sam might have worked out some of his aggression issues though, huh Sammy?"

_Oh God_, Sam thought, fighting the urge to bury his head his hands, recalling the salt-laden shotgun going off in his hands, the cold, hard fury he'd felt towards his big brother as he'd pulled the trigger on the handgun, not once but _four_ times. Dean had refused point blank to discuss it at the time, why did he have to bring it up now?

"Yeah that uh...didn't work out too well for me either," he replied, pointedly, trying to catch Dean's eye, but his brother's focus was still on Theo.

"And all that electro-shock therapy..." Dean gave a theatrical shudder. "Can't be good for a man's heart now can it."

Theo looked stunned and angry and Sam couldn't exactly blame him. Dean didn't just buck authority, he mocked it, mouthed off to it, could press each and every one of its buttons and love every minute of it.

The only person he'd never shown such disrespect towards was their Dad, prevented by that intangible, yet solid as steel hold John Winchester had over his eldest boy. He'd been the only person truly capable of keeping Dean in check though he'd rarely done so, letting his underage son head off to bars to hustle pool and score women. He hadn't cared if Dean came back bruised and bloody, just so long as he had cash in hand and wouldn't be hampered by his wounds.

And when Dad said jump, Dean didn't even stop to ask how high.

"Uh Dean maybe we should help grandma clear the table," Sam suggested, anything to break the tension, the storm he could see brewing in his brother's eyes.

He began to rise along with Molly, but Theo motioned for them to remain seated, before turning the full force of his disapproving gaze onto his eldest grandson.

"Maybe you'd care to explain," he began, severely, "why your grandmother and I received a call from the St Louis police force six months ago, informing us you were a wanted felon who had wound up shot dead?"

"Theo…" Molly tried to soothe her husband, but he wasn't having any of it.

"It took a call from Sam here to let us know you were still alive, boy!"

Sam saw Dean bristle at the 'boy' remark, but his brother turned disgustedly to him instead. "Nice one Sam, you just had to tell them."

"Of course I did," Sam shot back, defensively. What, was everything now suddenly his fault because he'd pissed his brother off by bringing him to their grandparents? "They flew down to attend your funeral after they heard you'd been killed. They deserved to know that it was a…a misunderstanding, that you weren't really dead. Or a murderer!"

"What we don't understand dear," Molly said, to his brother, "is why you haven't gone to the police to clear this matter up?"

For once Dean appeared to be without a snappy answer. The truth was it was a heck of a lot easier to be thought dead and buried when one was running ID and credit card scams. And it kept their trail clean, just like Dad had taught them. If they left behind a mess or too many unanswered questions, Dean Winchester was the last person the police would start a manhunt for.

"He will," Sam promised his grandmother. "It's just...things have been hectic for us lately..."

Theo harrumphed. "Chasing after that no good father of yours."

"Hey, our Dad is out there looking for the thing that killed Mom," Dean shot back, sounding angry.

"Killed?" Theo scoffed.

"Our daughter died in a house fire Dean," Molly said, softly. "I know what your father believes, but you were too young to understand that it was just a tragic accident…"

"John filled your head with that nonsense," Theo plowed on, overriding her. "No doubt he has you boys believing that Sam's girlfriend was 'killed' too."

"Well now that you've brought it up..." Dean began, belligerent.

"Dean," Sam cut him off, shaking his head. There was no use trying to convince either of their grandparents of the things that truly lurked in the darkness. And maybe it was easier for them to believe their daughter had died in an accident, than face the shattering truth that her life had been deliberately and cruelly taken. He turned to Theo, "Look we just need to find our Dad, to know that he's ok."

Theo snorted derisively. "The man's a drunk, probably lying in a gutter somewhere."

"Ok that's it." Dean shoved away from the table and for one heart stopping moment, Sam thought his brother was actually about to punch their grandfather. "I can't listen to this crap. I'm outta here."

To Sam's relief, Dean simply rose, tossing down his napkin. "Thanks for the meal Molly. I'll show myself out." He paused, then snagged a slice of carrot from his plate, giving their grandmother an insolent wink as he bit into it, before heading out of the room.

"No Dean, please don't go...Theo," Molly turned begging eyes on her husband, and Theo rose as if to go after Dean.

Sam quickly jumped up, realising the damage was done and anything Theo might say would just make his brother madder.

"Wait, I'll go talk to him," he told them, placating, before hurrying after Dean.

_To do what_, Sam thought, as he crossed the dining room. _Drag him back to the table so they can insult Dad some more?_

If he was honest, Theo calling Dad a drunk had been hard to hear for him too, even if there was truth in that. He knew that his father and the Madisons had clashed on more than one occasion, but he hadn't realised until now how resentful they were of their son-in-law. And for the life of him, he couldn't begin to fathom why.

His brother was in the hallway, pulling on his leather jacket when Sam caught up to him.

"Dean, wait up. Look, you don't have to go."

"Oh I think I do." There was no doubt in his brother's voice. As Sam struggled to find words to convince him to stay, Dean raised a cool eyebrow. "What, you expect me to just sit there and listen as they trash Dad? They bury their heads in the sand while he risks his life every day trying to find the thing that killed Mom."

Sam couldn't deny it was true, but Stanford had taught him to straddle the blurry fence that lay between normality and the supernatural and he truly believed he could exist in both worlds.

Yet to think his brother might be capable of the same was tantamount to tilting at windmills. Unlike Sam, there could be no grey, no in between in Dean Winchester's mind. It was either good or evil, fighting monsters and spirits or having the white picket fence.

"I know but…they're really not bad people Dean," Sam cajoled. "I mean come on, we meet people like our grandparents all the time and we don't expect them to believe in what we _know _is out there."

"You know Sam, disbelief I can handle. Hell, I don't care if they think we're nuts. But I remember what Dad was like after Mom died, it almost killed him. And where was Theo and Molly huh? Too busy preaching about how he should have checked the smoke alarm or gotten to Mom quicker, rather than face the truth about what happened. They might not be bad people in your book, but they're a hell of a long way from good people in mine."

"I didn't know about that," Sam defended, quietly, shocked. How could he when he'd been little more than a baby.

"Yeah well, they've obviously gotten to you by the looks of things." There was disappointment on Dean's face, though he tried to hide it. "You kept it pretty quiet too huh. So what did they offer to get you on side?"

Sam look down, unsure why he felt ashamed. Maybe because he'd kept the fact he'd met with their grandparents secret for so long, it felt like a lie.

"Free ride doesn't pay for books and board," he answered, quietly, with a shrug to shake off the guilt. He had nothing to be ashamed of, especially when their grandparents had been his only support when he went off to college. "They offered to help pay until I found my feet."

"Great, they bought you off. Dude, if I known you were so cheap…"

"Dammit Dean," Sam exploded, fighting to keep his temper in check. Even Dean looked temporarily taken aback. "I had no support from you or Dad, no chance of a loan because our oh so excellent credit history, what was I meant to do? Turn them down because they said some bad stuff to Dad over twenty years ago?"

"Yeah, it's called being loyal," came his steady, almost anticipated reply and Sam didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

Why did it always come down to loyalty to their father with Dean, like some bizarre, black and white answer to everything. God, he knew Dean would die for him, would walk through fire and flood to keep him safe. And since the revelation that Dean had been the one to carry him as a baby from the fire, Sam now knew that the protection his sibling offered wasn't simply big brother looking out for little brother. It was something fundamental that had been conditioned into Dean's very being from the tender age of four.

But while Sam knew his brother loved him, he knew he'd never own the same kind of unconditional obedience Dean showed their father. He doubted anyone ever would.

"Anyway, you do what you want Sam," Dean was saying as he bent down to grab his pack.

"And where are you gonna go?" Sam demanded, frustrated.

"The hell away from here," was his answer as Dean opened the door, letting in a blast of frigid night air.

"What about the haunting, the murder?" Sam tried, desperately.

Dean paused, then sighed, the fight seeming to leave his body at his little brother's silent entreaty. "Tell you what Sammy, you grill the old folks, get whatever else you can out of them and convince me this wasn't a colossal waste of my time and tomorrow we'll see about digging up some bones. Ok?"

It wasn't much of a peace offering, but considering his brother's black mood, Sam would take what he could get. "Ok," he nodded, halting at the door, watching Dean head down to his beloved impala. "And Dean?" he called down before his brother could climb into whatever meagre warmth the Chevy offered. "Don't go hunting down any leadswithout me, ok?"

He wasn't rewarded with a reply, just what he thought was a grunt of assent, before Dean climbed into the car and moments later red, rear lights were disappearing down the street.

"Sam honey?" Molly's voice at his shoulder made Sam turn and he slowly closed the door, shutting out the cold.

"Sorry grandma," he told her, with an apologetic shrug. "Dean's just stubborn. Too much like our dad I guess."

Theo's bark of laughter drew Sam into the sitting room, to where his grandfather was already ensconced in his armchair, filling his usual Meerschaum pipe "Too much like your mother you mean," he corrected Sam. "John has his faults, I've never denied it, but he's a direct man. Much like yourself." He pointed the tail end of his pipe at his grandson.

Stunned and intrigued by this new insight, Sam sunk onto the opposite couch, Molly taking the seat at his side. He'd always assumed the reason why Dean had been the perfect son was because his brother had become the carbon copy John Winchester had always craved. And, somewhere deep down, there had been the fear that maybe that Sam was too close to their Mom's image for Dad's comfort, a constant reminder of what he had lost.

"It's true," Molly assured him, seeing his disbelieving look. "I know it's hard to understand but we see so much of your mother in Dean. Me and your grandfather did our best with her but Mary…well she went her own way."

"Sassy, always sneaking off, a hellion as she got older," Theo continued, gruffly. "Truth be told, when she married your father and became pregnant with your brother, we hoped John would settle her down, make a respectable woman of her."

Sam blinked, trying and failing to reconcile the kind, loving spirit of Mary Winchester that he and Dean had encountered back in Lawrence with the picture of her that Theo was painting.

"Theodore," Molly reprimanded her husband, softly with a frown, before turning back to Sam. "Please don't misunderstand us dear, she was our daughter and we loved her more than you can ever know. And she grew into a fine woman despite her faults. It's just…it's hard for us sometimes, that she died before she forgave us…"

Molly broke off, stifling to Sam's sorrow what he thought might be a sob. Without hesitation, he gently embraced his grandmother, unsurprised to see Theo looking down at his abandoned pipe with uncharacteristic sadness. Dad and Dean hadn't been the only ones left to grieve, weren't the only ones still grieving her loss he realised.

_God Mom_, Sam thought, silently. _I hope your spirit never realised how many lives were shattered the night you died_.

He'd never possessed his father's single-minded relentlessness in tracking down the thing that had killed her, not even Dean's passion for putting down whatever evil came their way or crossed their path.

But since Jessica's death Sam was finally beginning to identify with what drove his father to the dire lengths he had gone to.

It wasn't out of grief or fear or even, for Dean anyway, some desperate need to keep others from suffering the same fate.

It was pure vengeance. And whatever had killed Mom and Jess was going to die.

END OF CHAPTER FOUR


	5. Chapter 5

See Chapter One for details… 

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!

A/N: Just a quick apology to those who have sent me PM's and I haven't responded, I've only just figure out how the darn things work :P

OoOoO

Squinting against the light from the bedside lamp, the elder of the Winchester sons tossed his wristwatch down with a disgusted groan, trying to ignore its mocking 3.21am blink. Scrubbing a fist over sleep deprived eyes, Dean slumped against the pillows, flicking the light back off before the puke-inducing floral patterns that plastered the entire room made him want to take out his gun and shoot it.

It wasn't right or fair, he decided, grouchily, closing his eyes. Sam was officially the family insomniac, for whom a whole night of rested sleep was as rare as a rich whore.

But Dean could usually sleep like a baby, no matter how harrowing a gig or the horrors he'd battled or even the injuries he'd sustained. Hunting with their Dad for over a decade had inured him to things that would send most people screaming in terror from. And if his subconscious tried to screw with him while he slept and send those things into his dreams, well he'd Hunt their asses down there too.

Except this time it wasn't slavering werewolves or deranged spirits that haunted his sleep, gnawed at his waking thoughts like a dog worrying at its bone. It was the thought of how _those people _had somehow wormed their way into his brother's life, subtly trying to turn Sam against Dad, buying his love with easy money and free living. Hell for all Dean knew they had been the ones to put the idea of college into Sam's oblivious head. It wasn't like he or John had ever encouraged the kid, far from it.

_Sammy's got a mind of his own, dumbass,_ a voice inside reminded him. _He always knew what he wanted_.

It didn't stop the irritating thoughts spinning through his mind though. Truth was, he was disappointed at how easily Sam had allowed their grandparents into his life, how he'd let himself be manipulated by people whose only interest had been to tear their family apart and crucify Dad in the process.

_You could have told him_, that sonofabitch voice perked up again, and Dean groaned again, rolling over onto his front, mindful of his sore ribs, punching the pillow beneath his head as sleep continued to elude him.

Yeah he could have been honest with Sam, recounted fond childhood memories of how Dad's Miller time drinking buddies had grown to include Jack and Jim after their grandparents called him an unfit parent and tried to take his kids. How when Sam was four and he eight, when they'd finally found a stable home and Dad was finally getting his shit together, Theo and Molly had come along to screw it all up.

Dad had been forced to keep on the move or lose his children, and the Damocles' sword that Mary's parents had strung over his head had almost broken him. Sam always bitched about never having any kind of consistency, a place of their own, permanent friends and it would take but a few choice words from Dean to point him in the direction of who to blame for that particularly shitty aspect of their lifestyle.

But there was something about seeing Sam with their grandparents, how at home he appeared, how he obviously thought the world of them, that held Dean back. They were the normality Dean's little brother had always craved and he knew he'd never be the one to shatter that rose-tinted image for his brother.

No one hurt Sam, not even Dean. His brother deserved whatever happiness and comfort he could snatch on their way to finding Dad and every emotional bump and bruise he received along that road damaged Dean too. Keeping Sam safe was and always had been his top priority, so for his brother's sake, Dean would get to play the suffering martyr and keep his cake hole shut.

_While they continued to spoon-feed Sam lies about Dad..._

"Son of a _bitch_...!" Rolling onto his back, Dean irritably pressed the heel of his palms to his eyes, wishing he could somehow squeeze out the yammering of his subconscious. Sam was consorting with the enemy in what Dean considered spectacular ignorance, he _got _it already.

Taking a breath, he forced his focus onto their current gig, the recent murder and the restless spirit of Colleen Haley, going over the conversation he'd held with one Mrs Heightmayer, the owner of his current, dubiously furnished accommodation. Truth be told, he suspected the reputable lady of the house had been smoking something down in the basement, but she'd been friendly, if a little batty.

And when he'd fed her a line that involved heading out to the local cemetery to pay his respects at Colleen's grave, she'd been most emphatic.

"_Oh you won't find that poor girl there," she told him, with a dismissive wave. "Her daddy had her cremated."_

"_Huh," was all could think to reply with. "No bones then."_

"_Nope, none," she'd returned, without batting an eyelash as she handed him his key._

It was certainly rare for an active spirit to have no decaying ties to the living world, but not unheard of. He and Sam had discovered the hard way that sometimes ghosts could latch onto people or things that had held sway over them in life. The Hookman legend had been a prime example.

But what would keep a teenage chick's spirit haunting the scene of her own murder?

"'Vengeful spirit born out of violent death'," Dean quoted in a murmur, laying an arm behind his head as he stared thoughtfully up at the dark ceiling.

But other than a metaphorical rattling of chains, the Haley ghost hadn't actually hurt anyone. So something must have suddenly crawled up her ass to piss her off bad enough to butcher Amber, the poster child for unprotected sex. Unless...

Crocker was long dead and buried, no doubt hung by the exemplary police mandate of blame the transient, don't bother to ask questions later. But if he'd been telling the truth all those years ago, that he wasn't Colleen's killer, then maybe the real killer had stuck around town, had come out of retirement twenty years later to carve up the latest Britney Spears wannabe.

Which would mean that Sam had been right at the very start, that this wasn't their kinda gig after all.

Still, something felt off to Dean and even if Colleen's spirit wasn't acting out the ghost equivalent of pmt hell, they still had to lay her to rest. Dad had been emphatic on cleaning out supernatural hotspots, no matter if the spirit was benign, which meant discovering what was keeping her tied to the scene of her death.

Dean suddenly itched to call Sam, to tell him that hunting down ghost girl's bones had become irrelevant. That he needed his favourite trusty sidekick to help him uncover what was keeping Colleen from passing into that sweet, cheerleading paradise in the sky.

But maybe Sam was sleeping ok in the traitorous house of normalcy, that thoughts of Jess' death wouldn't touch him in a place where the darkness was blindly, blatantly ignored. It was wishful thinking, but it stayed Dean's hand from reaching for the cell phone anyway.It could wait until morning, he decided, closing his eyes and placing his hands on his bare stomach, feeling the telltale lethargy of sleep finally creeping up on him, the beckoning call of blessed unconsciousness...

_Let's just hope grandpa and grandma let Sammy come out to play_, the voice taunted.

Thirty minutes later Dean was crouched outside the local library doors, freezing his ass off in the frigid night air as he picked the deadlock with single-minded determination. Feeling the pins click into place along the sheerline, he threw a glance over one shoulder to double check the empty parking lot, before grabbing his duffel and pushing the door open.

"Man I love these trusting little towns," he commented quietly to himself as he crept into the hall, no alarm system resounding at his illegal presence.

Taking out the shotgun, both barrels preloaded with salt cartridges, he took a few cautious steps into the darkened library, flicking on his flashlight. He wasn't sure what he was looking for, hell he wasn't sure what he was doing breaking into a public library at four in the morning anyway. Just a gut feeling that the answers were here and that if he wanted to escape Deighton with his sanity intact, it meant getting the job done as quickly as possible and putting distance between himself and his holier-than-thou grandfolks.

Mrs Rubins' desk was stark and obsessively neat, much like the woman herself, and Dean fought the childish urge to scuff some of her papers as he passed, maybe push her pen cup over with a forefinger. Prowling around the counter, he hesitated, shivering slightly in his leather jacket as the fine hairs on the back of his neck suddenly prickled.

"There you are," he murmured, tightening his grip on the shotgun as honed instincts sprang to life.

Letting the flashlight lead the way, he wandered towards the shelves, keeping his sight trained down the barrel, guessing she'd make her move soon. His money might be on some outside killer offing Amber, but spirits could be sons of bitches too, complicated bastards just like the people they had once been in life.

"Come on now, no need to be shy," he cajoled, softly, swiftly aiming down the next aisle. "Just you and me here..." _And a few rounds of rock salt to beat back your ass with if I need to._

The flashlight suddenly flickered, but didn't go out completely. A cold breath on the back on his neck made Dean spin, his finger a hair's breadth on the trigger, but the aisle behind him was empty. Something stroked his face, a creepy, icy hand caressing his jaw and he battered it away, shrugging the back of his shotgun hand over where she'd touched like he might brush away cobwebs. The flashlight's beam flittered erratically as he sought a target, finding nothing but shelves once again.

Another feathery touch came, this time running across the fly of his jeans and as he jerked back, he thought on why not having Sam along as backup was a bad, _bad _idea.

"Hey, hands off the goods, sweetheart," Dean protested, a little wildly. Nothing like getting felt up by an unseen, possibly homicidal spirit to dampen the mood. "Frisky little minx aren't you."

As he backed out of the aisle, trying hard not to imagine Sam's laughter when he discovered his big brother had been groped like a cheap date, a solid hand fell upon Dean's shoulder, scaring the crap out of him.

"_Jesus_," he cursed, spinning, taking aim at the figure that stood before him in the dark.

He almost, _almost_, pulled the shotgun up and away from her face, but Dean had Hunted for a long time and he trusted his gut instinct on this one. She was so nearly perfect that he almost doubted himself, dressed in a denim miniskirt and white knee-length boots that were far too light for the weather.

"I may be a little behind on my Vogue subscription," he commented, eyeing her with suspicion, without lowering the weapon, "but darlin', you're at least twenty years out of date."

She smiled coyly, pink bubble gum lips drawing his attention to her mouth. He had to admit that in life she'd been one helluva babe, with auburn hair and a youthful, energetic body, sly green eyes that made honeyed promises few men would resist...

She was suddenly close to him - and how the _hell _had she sidestepped his aim? – running a hand down the front of his T-shirt, fingering his charm with curiosity, before flicking it aside, her cold arms suddenly around his neck, her chill breath snaking its way into his lungs as her lips pressed against his own.

_Chasing after tail is one thing Dean,_ his father's voice was saying in a rare, sit down lecture to his hormonal, teenaged son. _But it's going to get you into trouble one day._

_We talkin' shotgun wedding kinda trouble here?_ Dean had flipped back sassily as he shuffled though a deck of cards with Vegas ease.

Dad had shaken his head, half-amused, half-exasperated. _I mean supernatural trouble, son. Spirits, succubi...they'll pick up on your weaknesses, on your desires...use that against you. You've got to be more careful. Keep it in your pants when it counts._

And that had been the requisite parental talk on sexual protection according to John Winchester.

"God," Dean moaned, as a thrill of lust shot down his spine, fuelling places he didn't want to think about with a corpse sucking on his mouth. But damn, she knew how to move up against all the right places in a way no innocent eighteen-year-old should have.

Willing his upstairs brain, as Sam had so cutely termed it, to start firing, Dean conjured up the image of the slabs of flesh, skin and hair he and Sam had discovered in the sewer beneath St Louis on that skinwalker gig. Of the smell from Ellicott's body, stuffed into a cupboard and left to decay for over thirty years. 

It did the trick, snapping him out of whatever whammy she'd put on him. He was freezing, he realised, opening his eyes as some semblance of logical thought returned, and he drew in a sudden, wheezing gasp of air. She was stealing his heat, his warmth, his very breath.

"I want you baby," the spirit whispered seductively into his ear, and he gritted his teeth as hers grazed his earlobe. "You're so special. And I know you want me. Don't you want to touch me...?" 

_Molly and Theo, making out...naked in bed..._

With a grunt of effort, Dean thrust her away from him, limbs aching and stiff as he lunged for the shotgun, on the floor where he dropped it during the unholy make-out session.

"Man, I'm really gonna need therapy for that," he said, with a grimace of distaste, before letting Colleen have it full in the face with a round of rock salt.

She vanished without fuss in a blast of white mist, the sound of the shot deafening in the silent library.

Without hesitation, Dean ran back to the front desk, barely breaking stride as he bent to scoop up the duffel, heading straight for the door. It had been a bad idea trying to interrogate a spirit bent on sucking the life out of him, even worse that she'd been his type. Ok, usually dead chicks didn't do it for him, but even so he felt he'd been unfairly led astray this time.

Dean hit the door hard, grabbing for the handle but it didn't budge. For a moment he thought it was stuck as it rattled in its frame, before he cottoned on. Resting his forehead against the cool pane of glass, he gazed in frustration out into the parking lot beyond, thinking that now would be a really, really good time for the cops to show up after that gunshot.

"Oh come on Colleen," he called, belligerent, turning back to the empty library, kicking backwards, hearing his boot strike the glass panel with some force but, unsurprisingly, it didn't break. "Don't you know no means no? I just don't see us working sweetheart, you being dead and all."

There was probably another exit, a back entrance, but when a spirit had a hold on someone they didn't let go easy. Grabbing for his cell, he wasn't surprised to see the no signal warning. Apparently Colleen wanted to keep their little session cosy, so no calling in little brother to play chaperone.

Crouching down, Dean grabbed a handful of rock salt cartridges, stuffing them into his coat pocket. He was pretty sure he could hole up, outlast her the rest of the night with a dozen or so rounds, praying that come morning she'd crawl back to wherever spirits went during the daylight hours. Dad had lasted a lot longer on a lot less, but he was one tough son of a bitch. Dean could only hope to live up to his old man's image.

But there was still that nagging, pain in the ass feeling that he was missing something, that she was trying to clue him in on the real killer.

_Yeah, she was obviously trying to tell you something crucial while sticking her tongue down your throat_.

"Alright Colleen," he said, with a cocky confidence he didn't entirely feel as he rose to his feet, resting the reloaded shotgun against his shoulder. "Maybe there's something you want me to see here huh? Maybe you want someone to know the truth about who really murdered you?"

Silence met his question, but Dean Winchester rarely took that for an answer. Striding back towards the shelves, he felt something knock against his boot. His flashlight, completely dead, he realised as he crouched down.

"So you like it with the lights off," he murmured, grimly. "Great."

As he straightened, he heard the sound first, a muffled thump, before something came flying at him. Dean raised a warding arm a second too late to block and it struck him across the head with a heavy, dull blow. Stunned more than hurt, he sensed another object hurtling at him and coolly raised the shotgun, pulling the trigger before it hit.

Papery confetti rained down, shredded by the rock salt blast and Dean cursed as he saw the leathery bindings on the floor. Just a damned book.

He heard the noise again and ducked in time, a hardback hitting the shelf above his head.

"You don't wanna do this," he warned, wondering why the hell he was trying to reason with her.

Maybe Sam was rubbing off on him, getting him to dig a little deeper rather than shoot from the hip every time. But for one thing she was a spirit, another was that she was a woman, a very bad combination for rationality. And when he saw her form begin blur into existence three feet away, he didn't hesitate, just pulled the damned trigger.

"_Don't take my baby!"_ she screamed, and vanished a second before the blast hit.

"Dammit!"

Hunkering down, Dean cracked the shotgun and was reaching for two more cartridges when an invisible force grabbed him by the arms, lifted him and slammed him with inhuman force against the shelf. Books tumbled down around him as he lost his breath in a grunt of pain, lashing out with the butt of the gun as he tried to strike whatever was pinning him like a bug to the wood. It didn't connect, passed straight through.

Before him, the spirit of Colleen Haley flickered in and out of his vision like some badly tuned TV but this time it wasn't the pretty, horny chick from earlier. This time there was no way in hell he was getting turned on by the corpse-like figure.

Green eyes dull yet somehow menacing, grisly, decaying flesh on her arms and face...Dean glanced down to see a gaping hole where her stomach should have been, dug out right through to the back, the black blood from the gruesome wound drip dripping sluggishly down her bare legs.

"Man that's gotta hurt like a bitch," he said, hanging limply in her grip.

He had but a moment to contemplate why mouthing off to her might be a bad idea, before he was thrown clean across the aisle, his back hitting the shelving, the force of it knocking him, winded, to the floor.

"_Wild children_, _out of control_," a harsh, guttural voice ground out.

Shaking his head to clear it, Dean glanced up to see the words were coming out of her ravaged mouth. Yet he had the strangest feeling that Colleen hadn't been the one to voice them...but that maybe her killer had. If so, she sure had a funny, and painful, way of getting her point across.

"_Children who need to be disciplined, need to be purged of their sins,_" she continued in that jarring, masculine voice, advancing on him.

The empty shotgun was behind her, he realised, desperately. Out of reach. Dad would be so disappointed, Dean hadn't even lasted five minutes.

She grabbed hold of his jacket and tossed him again like a sack of cotton candy into another shelf and this time his head cracked against the wood. The room went dim for a moment as he slumped bonelessly to the floor, stunned.

"Son of a _whore_," he cussed, struggling against the near overwhelming desire to sink into unconsciousness.

_Keep moving, keep fighting, marines don't quit_. _You quit and you're dead son._

_Thanks for the pep talk Dad_, Dean thought, wryly. _How about something useful, like how not to get your ass kicked by an eighteen-year old dead chick?_

He wiped a hand across eyes that refused to focus, tensing as he anticipated seeing her spirit come at him again.

But the room was silent, empty. Eerily so.

Dean took a steadying breath, latched onto the welcome sight of the shotgun laying a few feet away and with a cautious breath, painfully got his knees under him.

An ominous creak from behind made him slowly glance over his shoulder, eyes widening as the whole shelf at his back was tipped forward with a deafening grind of shrieking wood. Instinctively shielding his head with his arms, body curled reflexively, he felt it slam down on top of him and the sheer forced of the impact made everything go black...

The faint click of heels on the marble floor greeted Dean as he finally came to, groaning at the heavy weight still trapping hislegs. The clicking slowed, came to a halt and Dean forced his eyes to open, to focus on the new presence.

The frowning visage of the indomitable Mrs Rubins glared down at him in silent, stern reprimand and he couldn't help but grin weakly.

"I uh, found that library card," he quipped, hopefully, pushing weakly and without much success against the shelf pinning him. Pale morning sunlight was spilling through the glass doors so he knew he'd been out for at least a couple of hours. _Not good_. "Thought I'd pick up that book now."

Mrs Rubins raised a cool eyebrow at that. "And you were searching for it in the _children's _section?"

_Yeah cause the Runaway Bunny is just about my speed at the moment,_ he almost retorted, but he was too busy clenching his teeth again a throbbing, agonising headache to muster that particular comeback.

Her gaze wandered and fell across the empty shotgun, and Dean sighed, let his forehead thump down onto the cold floor in silent defeat.

He was screwed.

END OF CHAPTER FIVE


	6. Chapter 6

See Chapter One for details… 

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!

A/N: Sorry for the delay in posting, my muse went on holiday but was lured back by the pretty boys of Supernatural. I'll try to chain her down for the remainder of this story.

OoOoO 

With gentle reverence, the youngest of the Winchester sons ran a wistful finger over the framed photo, tracing the lines of the woman's face, the baby she carried in her arms, barely able to reconcile the smiling, carefree stranger at her side with the image of John Winchester as he was now. On the back, in neat, florid handwriting were the names Mary, John and Dean and a date a few months after his brother had been born.

Bittersweet feelings emerged in the wake of the picture-perfect family they represented, the sheer normality of it, the what-could-have-been if the darkness hadn't made an appearance in their lives. God they looked so happy.

With a sigh, Sam replaced the photo in the box with care and leaned back against the wall, scrubbing at his eyes. Sitting on the cold concrete of his grandparents' basement, long legs stretched out before him, he gazed over the handful of unpacked cardboard boxes filled with scattered pictures and mementoes of his mother's early life, memories that she'd never had the chance to share with him.

The watery morning light that spilled in from the tiny windows did little to alleviate the gloom, though his mood did lift and his lips quirk in a reluctant smile when he came across some old vinyl records that suggested Dean had inherited his particular taste in music not from Dad but from Mom. Apparently Mary Winchester, loving mother and respectable wife, had been a Jim Morrison fanatic back in the day.

The smile faded as Sam's thoughts turned to his brother and the disaster that the evening with their grandparents had ended in. Armed with the best intentions, he had hoped to bring Dean closer to the people Sam thought of and loved as family, and yet had only succeeded in alienating him further from them. Perhaps it had been nothing more than wishful thinking, believing that once Dean had glimpsed the kind of life Sam wanted for himself, he might finally understand his little brother's desire for normality. Maybe even want it for himself.

But while a decades old rift still yawned far and wide between their grandparents and John Winchester, Sam knew Dean would be standing firmly on their Dad's side, the good soldier deferring to their father's general, fending off any and all attempts by a perceived enemy to weaken that allegiance.

Reaching for another photograph, Sam stared thoughtfully at the face of his young mother as she smiled at the camera, her long blonde hair wind-swept, an almost mischievous glint in her green eyes, and it suddenly occurred to him that their father wasn't the only person to have hold of Dean's unconditionally loyalty.

After the gig that had taken them back home, back to Lawrence to confront the poltergeist haunting their old house, its current occupant Jenny had given Dean an old tin box of photos that she had stumbled upon down in her basement. Pictures of Mom and Dad, of Dean cradling Sam as a baby, Dean and Dad out in the yard playing baseball.

Dean had been uncharacteristically quiet that day as he drove, his chosen music streaming from the tape deck moodier than usual. But Sam had gone through the photos with a voracious need, pestering his big brother for details and dates until, with a frustrated sound, Dean had grabbed the tin out of his hands and tossed the whole thing onto the backseat.

"It was a long time ago Sammy," he'd told his surprised younger brother gruffly. "Get over it."

But a few days later Sam had glanced out of the grubby motel window late one evening to catch his brother with the trunk popped, thumbing through the contents of the box once more with one of the saddest, most heartbreaking expressions Sam had ever seen his sibling wear.

So maybe the answer to healing the rift between their fragmented family lay right before him, amidst their dead mother's belongings. Perhaps he could lure Dean back to the Madison house with the promise of more pictures and memories, softening his brother's belligerence towards their grandparents when he saw that they had kept so many of her keepsakes safe. Maybe Theo and Molly didn't have a lot of love for John, but they had loved their daughter very much and he knew Dean would at least respect that.

Pushing to his feet, a vague plan formulating in his mind, Sam abandoned the boxes in favour of the smell of breakfast cooking under Molly's able hands, stomach grumbling in assent as he mounted the stairs. It would be something of a welcome relief not to be forced to down enough caffeine to keep him awake and alert and bouncing off the walls for a week. In their line of business a cup of coffee, decent or otherwise, had become part of their routine, almost as essential as salt and holy water.

He figured he could risk going cold turkey for one day and a busy one at that; searching for Colleen Haley's resting place, tracking down a lead his grandparents had given him on the murdered girl Amber, mellowing Dean enough for his brother to stop looking at their grandfolks like they were about to become his next Hunt.

Nearing the top of the stairs Sam slowed, hesitating as he heard Theo's rumbling voice uncharacteristically subdued, and emerged to see his grandfather on the phone, Molly standing alongside him with a worried hand pressed to her mouth.

"Grandma?" he asked, instantly concerned.

Molly moved to his side, taking his hand, as Theo finished his conversation and hung up, bushy brows crinkled in a frown. "Sam, we don't want you to worry," she began, soothingly, which set alarm bells ringing.

Telling someone not to worry was a sure-fire way of saying something was wrong and Sam didn't need a premonition to guess it was to do with his brother. Dean had the uncanny knack of attracting trouble in even the quietest of towns. Even so, his grandfather's next words came as a shock.

"Your brother was taken to hospital early this morning," Theo began brusquely and without preamble. "He's not badly hurt but they're keeping him in for now."

"What...why?" The last he had seen of Dean was of his brother driving away the evening before. He'd been fine then unless...unless he'd been lying about how badly their last Hunt had hit him.

"Howard didn't give me all the details," Theo was saying, "but it looks like Dean broke into the library last night and tore up the place. He was armed with a shotgun. Edna, Howard's wife, found him this morning."

Closing his eyes in frustration, Sam sunk down onto a kitchen chair, shocked and not a little pissed. _Dammit Dean, you promised you wouldn't go it alone._

"Sam honey, why would Dean do such a terrible thing?" Molly asked, her voice kind yet bewildered.

Because he's a stubborn idiot, he almost bit out, fighting the urge to bury his head in his hands. How the hell am I meant to explain this one away, huh Dean? 

Fortunately, Theo saved him from either lying straight out to his grandparents or trying to sell them some half-assed version of the truth.

"Because that boy is out of control, that's why," his grandfather retorted, grimly, folding his arms. "It's like I've always said Molly, if John had got some kind of professional help years ago instead of spouting crazy delusions about monsters and ghosts, then maybe Mary's boys would have been brought up properly. Instead the man has obviously passed his instability onto young Dean."

"Well we can thank the Lord that Sam here at least has found himself a good path in life," Molly added, patting her younger grandson's shoulder.

Inured to Theo's paternal preaching by now, Sam nonetheless grimaced at their oblivious ignorance. With his brother injured in hospital, instinct demanded he jump to Dean's immediate defence, but the more rational part of his mind knew that in doing so he would start something that his grandparents had deliberately chosen to ignore for over twenty years.

Now wasn't a good time to pursue the fact that their son-in-law had been right all this time, that their flawed view of him was wrong. That a demon had murdered their daughter and that ghosts and monsters really did lurk in the darkness.

Instead, he cleared his throat, feeling a coward as he shied the issue altogether. "How uh...how serious are the charges against Dean?"

He watched as Molly exchanged a careful, silent look with her husband, one that he couldn't interpret, but it made him uneasy nonetheless. They were rarely less than open with their youngest grandson and there was something going on behind that glance.

"I've spoken to Howard," Theo answered, slowly. "He's agreed to let us keep this one in the family and not file a report."

Sam slumped back in the chair in relief, running a hand through his hair. The last thing they needed were questions about Dean's real identity which an arrest would no doubt reveal. Which would in turn lead to more questions about the incident in St Louis. Dean would be lucky not to be facing a murder charge, let alone armed burglary and identity theft.

"We'll pay for the damage," he offered, earnestly, all the while desperately wondering how they were going to afford Dean's latest, ill-advised escapade.

Gas money had eaten badly into their cash flow and somehow Sam doubted his brother would be scoring bar bets in Deighton to cover the bill. Maybe day jobs would be the way to go, despite Dean's bitching over the hard work and crappy pay.

"It's already been taken care of," Theo said, with a dismissive wave.

Still, their easy generosity didn't sit right with Sam, who still felt he owed them so much for their unwavering support when he left for college. "We'll pay you back," he promised. "Every cent…"

"Oh hush Sam," Molly chided with a smile. "We could never allow John access to a trust fund for you boys, so let us help where we can without a fuss."

Breakfast regrettably abandoned, Sam was grateful once again when Theo offered to drive him to the hospital. Impatient at his grandfather's sedate pace along the highway, he instead fumed silently at his mentally deficient brother. It was a good thing Dean was already in the hospital, because when Sam got through with him...

When would Dean get it through his thick skull that running off alone wasn't an option while they were partners in this? Didn't he realise that while Sam was along for the ride they did their gigs together, covered each other's asses? Wasn't that why he'd dragged Sam away from Jess and college in the first place? Wasn't that the reason for Hunting together while they searched for Dad?

They took enormous risks everyday of their life, ended up injured more than not, so something that might have been prevented by a simple phone call struck Sam as the height of stupidity. And recklessness.

"Boy, you're gonna chew it clean off if you keep that up," Theo said, into the silence.

Becoming aware he was biting his thumbnail, an ingrained habit that Jess had often teased him for, Sam deliberately placed his hand in his lap, knowing it was a sure sign of his gnawing frustration.

"I'm just worried about Dean," he admitted. _And furious_. At his grandfather's raised eyebrows, he felt compelled to add, "It's not...it's not his fault grandpa, the way he acts. I know you don't understand but it's...Dean doesn't mean any harm," he finished, somewhat lamely.

He never had a way with words when it came awkward explanations, half-truths and lies, didn't have Dean's easy Southern charm or bold as brass gift for storytelling. An almost overwhelming urge to tell his grandfather everything struck him then, to confess that the road trip was a lie for finding Dad, which in turn would hopefully lead them to Jess' murderer, a real, honest to God demon. But he knew he couldn't. Jess herself had taught him the hardest part of their abnormal lifestyle. It wasn't the hunting or the near deaths or injuries, or even the ridicule of those that didn't understand or believe.

It was, as Dean had always put it, doing their job and keeping their traps shut about it. They didn't just protect people from the evil that awaited them in the dark, they protected them from the knowledge of it too.

"I'm sure he doesn't," Theo replied, more gently than Sam would have expected. "Sometimes, when you're under a strain or have experienced a loss, it's hard to see things clearly. But that's something me and your grandmother will do for you Sam, you don't have to bear the burden alone."

Sam slanted him a glance from beneath his bangs, sensing something odd in his grandfather's words and tone, something akin to the strange look he had shared with Molly earlier, but he was still unsure what to make of it. And he still didn't like it.

"Grandpa," he began, with a querying frown, but Theo nodded to the road ahead, drawing his attention.

"Not far now," was all his grandfather said, effectively cutting off any questions.

And Sam began to chew on his thumbnail once more.

OoOoO

Like most people, more than anything Sam hated the smell of hospitals. The dry, antiseptic, stale food smell that seemed to pervade everything from the front desk to the public restrooms to the private wards. Dean had been admitted under his current fake identity and with Theo's friendship with Howard, few questions had been asked. At least no connection to the name Winchester would be made for a while.

Sam and his grandfather were greeted by a man a few years younger than Theo, with a severe cut to his grey hair and a no-nonsense set to his features.

"Sam this is Howard Rubins," his grandfather introduced them and Sam nervously shook hands, knowing this was the man whose diligence to his duties could well lead to Dean facing a murder charge. "My grandson Sam. He's studying at Stanford." There was puffed up pride in his last words.

"Good to meet you Sir," Sam greeted the officer with the best innocent, law abiding citizen demeanour he could muster.

Howard's face betrayed nothing of his thoughts regarding the brother of the man who had tore up his spouse's place of work. "Theo has told me a lot about you, son. The man speaks constantly about his family." The stern visage cracked slightly in a wry smile at Sam's grandfather.

"Well as you know Mary's boys are all me and Molly have left," Theo replied. "It's just a damned shame…well I've mentioned their father too, so you understand why this has happened."

"That I do."

Howard gave his grandfather a slight nod and another silent, maddeningly elusive exchange occurred right before Sam. As a pre-law student, one of the fundamental skills required had been an ability to read people, to get them to open up and it had been a vital, natural skill that Sam had used on many occasions during their recent Hunts. Jess had always said he had an easy, honest face than endeared him to most people and would make him a great lawyer one day.

Or a great psychic. She'd never know how tragically ironic that gentle jibe would turn out to be.

But now Sam couldn't seem to read either of the men that stood before him or their subtle, silent accord.

"Sam, why don't you go visit with your brother," Theo suggested, clapping a friendly hand on Howard's shoulder. "We're going to catch up a while here."

Sam watched them leave, then shook his head. Whatever was going on, he had a bad feeling he'd find out soon enough. And he had other, important things to think about, like chewing out Dean over his reckless behaviour.

But the words of anger and frustration died on his lips the moment he stood in the doorway to his brother's private room. It wasn't the pretty nurse ostensibly fluffing the pillows while she flirted with her patient who was casting her a scorching smile. For a moment time had gone backwards and Sam was staring at the pale, hollow face of his dying brother, terrified of facing that inevitable prospect while Dean did what he did best and tried to protect his little brother from the worst of the pain with flippant remarks.

"Sam? Sammy? Hey, you in there man?"

Shaking his head to rid himself of the unwelcome memory, Sam realised Dean had been calling his name and this time he refused to allow his anger to slide away. His brother looked all kinds of hell, yet again, with dark circles under his eyes and a nasty cut above his left eyebrow, stretching into his hairline. But, to Sam's relief, there wasn't the resigned, accepting look in his brother's eyes that he had glimpsed those months back in the hospital.

The nurse's flash of a smile as she passed drew his gaze from his injured sibling for a moment, but as soon as she was gone Sam rounded on his brother.

"What the hell were you thinking, Dean?" he demanded, striding into the room. It came out with a tinge more concern than fury but he didn't care. He suppressed the urge to wrap his hands around Dean's neck, instead settled for prowling to the foot of the bed and gripping the railing.

Looking slightly surprised at his younger brother's tone, Dean gave him a what the hell shrug. "Look I know it didn't quite work out how I planned, but I'm pretty damned sure Colleen's spirit didn't waste Amber…"

"Dammit, will you lay off the Hunting thing for one minute?" Realising the increasing volume of his voice would draw unwanted attention, Sam glanced at the door, then learned forward, continuing in a low hiss, "Do you have any idea how much trouble you could be in right now?"

"Dude, what is your problem?" Dean shot back, looking bewildered. "Ok so I drew a little heat onto our tail, it's not like it's the first time. I bust outta here, we finish up this gig and be long gone by the time the cops get their butts out of the local doughnut shop."

"Just like that huh?" Sam asked, sceptical.

"Just like that," Dean echoed back, without a trace of doubt.

Sam shook his head and moved to slump into the seat next to the hospital bed in resignation, realising that like most sibling relationships, the youngest rarely won out against big brother in arguments such as these. "Well I guess you're in luck. There's not going to be any charges."

Dean raised his eyebrows at that, impressed. "How the hell d'you fix that one Perry Mason?"

"I didn't." Sam felt a certain, vicious glee arise when he answered, knowing Dean was going to hate his reply. "Theo spoke to his cop friend, Howard. Used a little friendly persuasion, so no report and no charges...thanks to our grandparents."

"Oh man." Dean slumped against the pillows, looking more disappointed than a man no longer facing a criminal charges had a right to. "I don't wanna owe those people anything."

"Well, we now also owe them for the damage to the library," Sam added, with a serene smile. "But since we can't pay it back right now, I'm thinking maybe jobs while we're in town…"

"You're just loving this aren't you?" Dean demanded, disgustedly, not fooled for one moment by his brother's innocent expression. "I'm gonna kick Colleen's ass for this, that dead chick's more trouble than she's worth."

Curiosity fast replacing his resentment, Sam leaned forward. "Speaking of the spirit, what did you find out?"

"Oh so you wanna know now you've finished busting my chops?"

"Dean…" Letting out an explosive sigh that took the rest of his anger, Sam rubbed at his eyes. "Look I'm not happy you didn't call me, which by the way might have saved us all this trouble. We're partners in this thing, together, until we find Dad. We watch each other's backs. I just...I need to know you're not gonna run off without me again."

Now Dean did look slightly abashed, glancing away from Sam's earnest, pleading stare. Again he was hiding something from his little brother, Sam could sense it, but didn't get a chance to call on it.

"It's not gonna happen again," Dean said, honestly, if shortly. "I thought I could get the job done alone. I was wrong. Now you want to hear what I've got or hold hands some more?"

Sam chuckled despite himself, despite his earlier anger, ducking his head to hide his grin. Maybe Dean didn't do heartfelt and open, not the way Sam would like, but he sure knew how to shake his little brother out of whatever funk he'd fallen into.

"Go ahead," was all he said, with a magnanimous gesture.

OoOoO

Shifting against the pillows, Dean stifled a grimace of pain, knowing it would only set off that touchy-feely crap Sam loved so much. His little brother looked rested, so the last thing he needed right now was to be worrying about big brother's petty injuries. They both needed to focus on the current gig so they could get the hell out of town and screw those day jobs Sam had planned. Dean would leave their grandfolks an i.o.u if it made him feel better.

Eyes crinkled in laughter, Sam was chuckling as Dean finished recounting his eventful night spent with Colleen Haley's spirit, including her unwholesome advances.

"So you think you two might be picking out curtains anytime soon?" he teased and Dean groaned, realising why giving little brother more ammunition was a bad, bad idea. "I mean, I didn't know you dug necrophilia but..."

"Oh man, shut up," Dean cut him off, irritably.

"Guess you really are irresistible, even to the dead ones huh?"

"Sam."

Ground out in stark warning, his little brother subsided, though he was unable to hide a cheeky grin.

"Well, I guess I was right, this probably is a case for the cops," Sam said, tactfully changing the subject, tapping the pen on his notebook as he gazed down at the details he had scribbled there.

"Yeah except Colleen's turning nasty," Dean told him, pointedly, wincing as he gingerly touched the gash on his forehead. "This latest killing has pissed her off big time man."

"And if she escalates, the cops won't know what to do. But Dean, without bones..."

"I know, I know." Laying back against the pillows, Dean rubbed tiredly at his eyes. Damn, why couldn't they catch a break on this one? He needed to be out of this perfect little town and soon, but until they found a way to put Colleen to rest...

The more time he spent here, around Molly and Theo and their upstanding friends, the more he felt like the last wife in Stepford.

"Grandpa did give me something, it's not much but I thought I might check it out," Sam was saying, glancing down at his notebook. "Amber worked at a diner outside of town, thought I might head over and do a little digging, see if any of her co-workers noticed anything unusual."

It was a long shot, especially since both Winchesters were now convinced her death wasn't of supernatural cause, just the usual, sick and twisted kind. But it was something and though they might not be the detectives they often pretended to be, Dad had ingrained in both his sons a sharp instinct for investigation.

"Just waiting on that AMA and I'll come with," Dean replied. Never hurt to have two sets of eyes and ears, and now that he wasn't facing certain arrest, he couldn't wait to get the hell away from the hospital. Wouldn't be the first time he'd checked himself out against medical advice, but they needed to get this thing done. He could recuperate later, preferably two hundred miles away in another town.

"Uh Dean." And why was Sam suddenly looking at him like he might break at any moment? "Why don't I go pick up the car now and head straight over to the diner. You can stay here a while longer and I'll pick you up later."

Dean blew out an annoyed breath, the last thing he needed was Sam's mothering. "Dude I'm fine, ok?"

"You look like hell and then some."

He felt it too, truth be told. And the damned headache wasn't going away any time soon apparently.

"Besides," Sam pressed, "it'll take a while for your AMA to come through and I need to catch a ride with grandpa back to town." At Dean's mutinous expression, he cajoled, "Come on Dean, you could do a little research while you wait."

"Right, so you get to play investigator while I sit here on my ass doing yourjob?"

Sam picked up Dean's cell phone and held it out to his brother, his smile suspiciously smug. "Call round Dad's contacts, see if they can come up with a way to get rid of the Haley spirit that doesn't involve salt or gasoline."

Dean snatched the phone, glared at his little brother.

"Get some rest too," Sam suggested softly as he rose, heading for the door. "I'll be back to pick you up later."

"Yeah well, you'd better," Dean retorted darkly, unhappy with the prospect of spending more time in the hospital. He couldn't help one final jibe, "Have fun Nancy Drew."

Sam chuckled at that but didn't bother with a comeback.

Once he was gone, Dean let out another breath, this one tinged with the pain from his various bruises and cuts, his aching back and shoulders. Sam was right, he did need rest but nothing that a decent night's sleep and a handful of tylenol wouldn't go a long way to cure. He sure as hell wasn't going to get that in the hospital, he'd hated the damned places ever since he was a kid. Too many run ins with ignorant, God-complex doctors who thought they knew best, who wanted to call Social every time Dad brought him in with a few scratches or bruises he'd got while out on a Hunt. He'd fast learned that, like Dad, enduring the pain was far easier than trying to get help from people that just didn't understand.

Though if a certain perky nurse did happen to return and show her dedication to her patient once more he wouldn't complain, Dean thought with a small, lascivious grin. He wouldn't mind showing her a little dedication of his own.

A while later he'd just finished his fifth and fruitless call to one of Dad's contacts, a slightly maniacal sounding guy named Eddie whose only suggestion was to burn down the entire building where the spirit resided. As tempting as the thought was to end it quick and nasty, preferably with the frigid Edna Rubins inside, Dean knew Sam would never go for it. His little brother was a stickler when it came to criminal damage, must be something to do with that whole law school thing.

The door opened but to his disappointment it wasn't the delectable Nurse Myers. An older man, replete with the standard white coat and clipboard, entered and took a seat at the bed, giving Dean a friendly nod.

"Dean Hetfield?" he asked, consulting his file.

"Finally," Dean griped, shoving himself upright, eager to receive his AMA and get the hell out. "Just show me where to sign."

"I'm Doctor Vaughn," the man continued, calmly, looking up with a benign smile. "Do you know why you're here Dean?"

The question was a little odd, but Dean assumed it was to make sure the concussion hadn't screwed with his brain. If only they knew the kinda thing that usually messed with his head.

"I heard you got cable?" he flipped back. Holding up a hand to forestall the inevitable, cut and dried speech about leaving the hospital against medical advice, he continued, "Look Doc, I know what you're gonna say. I feel fine and I'm checking myself out."

Vaughn frowned a little, glancing once more at his file. "I'm afraid that's not going to be possible right now."

God complex, sure enough. Man, he knew why he hated these places, he didn't need a reminder. "Whatever dude, I'm leaving. If you want me to sign, I'll sign but I'm out of here."

He was preparing to throw back the covers and do just that when Vaughn took a paper from his clipboard, handed it across. It wasn't the AMA form he was expecting so it took a moment to read the words and let them sink in.

"'Involuntary commitment'?" Frowning, his eyes darted down the page. Delusions, violent behaviour... "Possible drug abuse! What the f...?"

"You broke into a public building armed with a shotgun. What were you hoping to find or do there Dean?"

The kindly, solicitous tone was starting to fray his already spooked nerves. He knew better than to answer with the truth, hell even a lie wasn't going to cut it here. He balefully eyed the man sitting next to him and something suddenly clicked. "Vaughn huh? As in Daniel Vaughn?"

"That's right." Again the indulgent, paternal smile that made Dean grit his teeth. "I hear you were chasing a ghost," Vaughn continued, a blatant attempt to get him to open up, confess and buy himself a one way ticket to the nut house.

"That would be insane, right?" he muttered, racking his brains for a way to get out of this mess. Cops he could handle, but a shrink and one that his grandparents knew... "Did they put you up to this?" he demanded, suddenly, blackly furious. "The Madisons?"

"Please, calm down. This is simply part of my work here at the hospital, to assess and treat people who might be a danger to themselves or others. Your recent behaviour is an indication that harm to yourself or the people around you might become a possibility."

Glancing at the commitment order, Dean squinted at the signature at the bottom, _Howard Rubins_. He let his head fall back to the pillow with a thump, the irony leaving a bitter tang in his mouth. He'd come up against wendigos and killer scarecrows, hell he'd even escaped from the Grim Reaper himself...well one of them anyhow.

And yet now he'd been blindsided by his own family. They'd tried this shit with Dad countless times, he should have expected something.

"Man am I an idiot," he said aloud, wonderingly.

Vaughn took the form from his hand and rose. "We're just here to help you Dean. I hope you can accept that help. It might not be easy at first, but you'll come to realise it's for your own good."

And even if he really believed that, he was still going to hightail it out of there as soon as Sam returned to bust him loose. "Hey Doc," he called as Vaughn opened the door. He wasn't sure what prompted him to ask the question, curiosity maybe. "Do you believe in ghosts?"

Vaughn paused and glanced back. "I believe certain people are prone to believing in their existence, yes," was his text-book perfect reply. "But if you're referring to town chatter about the ghost haunting our library then no, I don't."

"Why's that?"

Vaughn hesitated, momentarily discomforted. "Because Colleen was my daughter. I refuse to believe she's anywhere other than in the kingdom of God."

END OF CHAPTER SIX


	7. Chapter 7

See Chapter One for details… 

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!

A/N: Sorry once again for the delay in posting, RL has been kinda hectic. This is also a shorter chapter than before, makes it easier to work on them if they're not too long :)

OoOoO

Keeping his expression carefully blank, Sam stared as the small pink bubble slowly distended for the fifth time then popped, instantly sucked back into the girl's mouth, who began chewing with a renewed vigour. Suppressing a sigh of impatience, he glanced at his fellow patron, an older man five stools down buried in a newspaper. Other than the two of them and the bored, bubble-popping waitress, the place was starkly empty.

Elbows propped on the counter, Danielle Stevens gave him a sudden sunny smile, gum tucked behind her teeth, fingering a strand of hair that had escaped her blonde bunches. "So what paper did you say you were from?" she said at last.

Sam sighed, placed his notebook and pen next to his sluggish, untouched black coffee. He'd ordered it with cream. "The Sunday Herald," he answered, folding his hands. "We're investigating whether the social degradation of the big cities is beginning to corrupt our smaller towns."

She nodded, disinterested. "So do I get like paid or something?"

"Well, no," he replied, honestly, caught off guard. At her imminent frown, he hastily added, "But you'll get your name in the paper."

Danielle brightened. "And my picture?"

"Sure. Absolutely." He flashed her a stunningly false smile.

"Well, there's not much I didn't tell the cops," she began, then fished her gum out of her mouth, placing it in a napkin. "Amber was ok, you know. Family was kinda poor for around here." She glanced at the other patron, then shrugged, "Her mom was crazy."

"Yeah I heard about that." Shifting on his stool, Sam leaned forward, keeping his voice purposely low. "Did Amber ever mention anyone who might have wanted to hurt her?"

"Not to me. And she was a sweet kid and all. Besides, anyone tried, the guy she was seeing wouldn't have like it. He was real possessive."

Mrs Rubins had said Amber was pregnant at the time of her murder, but no one seemed to know who her mysterious lover was. Trying not to let his eagerness show, Sam picked up his pen, "So she talked about him?"

Danielle snorted and shook her head, disappointing him. "No, she was real closed mouthed about it all, he was old though. Old enough to be her pa. I think half the town was afraid they'd find a diary and it would name one of those hypocritical bunch of perverts."

It wasn't unheard of, poor girl hooks older man as a free meal ticket. Sam could easily understand the town's fear, places like Deighton thrived on their respectability, keeping their dirty laundry firmly hidden behind closed doors. "So this guy, you think she was seeing him for the money?"

"That's what most people say," Danielle replied, "that she was doing him for the size of his wallet. But she never got one red cent out of him. No clothes or jewellery, no fancy restaurants. I'd have taken him for everything he had."

"Was she in love with him?" he asked, ignoring her last comment.

Danielle snorted derisively. "She hated him. Hated what he did to her. Told me as soon as she got enough money she was leaving, as far and fast as she could go."

Brow furrowed in thought, Sam stared at his pad. If Amber hadn't been in it for the money or the romance, it left one other possibility. The man had been coercing her somehow. Blackmail, threats against her and her family. Or maybe making future promises.

"He beat her, once," Danielle said, quietly, and she looked down at her fingernails. "Over some stupid little thing. I tried to get her to report it to the cops but she said she couldn't. Guess he finally went too far. And the cops aren't looking too hard, saying it was someone from out of town that did it." She shrugged, fell silent.

God. Trying hard not to think on what the nineteen year old had gone through before her death, Sam asked as gently as he could, "Did she say why he beat her?"

Danielle didn't reply, instead bent down, began searching under the counter before emerging with a handful of photographs which she silently placed before him. The other patron coughed meaningfully and she moved off to refill his cup.

Shuffling carefully, curiously through pictures of people dancing, partying, Sam recognised Danielle, her cheeks flushed and eyes both glazed and bright by whatever she had drinking. The next was one of a dark haired Amber Collins, the flash on the camera making her smile brighter, her eyes gleaming. Unlike the newspaper picture Sam had seen two days before, she looked happy, vibrant...alive.

"It was just some fun," Danielle was saying as she returned. "A friend's party. But he didn't like it."

"And he beat her for it. Man." Grimacing, Sam tried to get a handle on his anger as he stared at the dead girl's photo. "Did you tell the police this?"

"Like I said, cops are blaming an out of towner. No one cares."

Closing his notebook, Sam placed a couple of bucks on the counter. "I do," he told her, with sincere determination. Then hesitated, picking up the photographs. There was something about the dead girl's smile, something illusive he couldn't quite put his finger on. "Hey, you mind if I keep these?"

"You mean for my picture? Sure go ahead."

"Thanks."

As he strode out into the wind swept parking lot, his cell rang. "Yeah Dean, I'm here." Wedging the phone between his ear and shoulder, he fumbled for the keys to the impala. "I'm on my way now so you can stop climbing the walls."

"Yeah well the ones I'm about to climb are padded," came the acerbic reply. "Seems like Officer Rubins decided to have me committed."

Pocketing the keys, Sam grabbed the phone. "What! Are you serious?"

"Do I sound like I'm joking around here?" Actually Dean sounded kinda desperate and kinda pissed, definitely not kidding around. "Just get your butt down here and bust me loose."

"Look, just...hold on a second." Yanking open the car door, Sam dropped into the driver's seat, rubbing a hand across his forehead as he thought furiously. Breaking his brother out of a hospital room or even a small town police station was one thing, but a psychiatric ward? "Dean, I'm not sure there's anything I can do, security is pretty tight in those places."

"Come on man, you studied law. There's gotta be something."

"_Pre_-law and this is way out of my league," Sam replied, exasperated. "Look, it's seventy-two hour commitment. Maybe you could just stay out of trouble for the next three days and try to convince them you're not insane. You're good at making stuff up so..."

"Funny." Dean didn't sound amused in the least. "Well let me ask you this little brother. Who do you think convinced Rubins to drop the charges and sign that form instead?"

There was a beat before Sam caught the underlying accusation. "You can't be serious." The silence gave him the all too obvious answer. "No, no way Dean, they wouldn't." Shaking his head, refused to believe their grandparents would try anything so…so malicious.

But then there had been those little glances, the brief, silent exchanges...the dropped charges and Theo's talk in the car about helping Sam 'bear the burden'. Of a possibly homicidal sibling?

His brother must have sensed his uncertainty. "Sam, they tried the same shit with Dad." Dean's voice sounded weary, disgusted now and Sam's hand tightened on the phone.

This was the last thing they needed, especially with Dean's recent injuries, his utter exhaustion. Deighton had meant to be a solution, a way for both brothers to relax, spend some time with family away from the road. Instead it had thrown at them one crisis after another.

He still couldn't believe Theo or Molly were responsible for committing one of their own grandchildren, despite their concern over Dean's lifestyle and Sam's welfare. But he attempted to reassure Dean regardless. "I'll talk to them," he promised. "I'll get this straightened out, I swear."

"Yeah well some time before they bring on the thorazine and five point restraints would be nice," came the dry retort.

"Dean…"

"Yeah, look did you get anything from the diner?"

Sam hesitated at the abrupt change of subject, but let it go. "Maybe, I'm not sure yet. You?"

"Nothing." His brother's voice had dropped, suggesting he wasn't alone while he made the call. "Listen Sam, don't go chasing any leads without me ok?"

"Didn't we have this conversation last night?" Sam demanded wryly, struck by his brother's double standards. "And if you'd listened to me then you wouldn't be calling me from a psychiatric ward's payphone."

"I'm serious, it's not safe," Dean shot back, and there was a tinge of fierce worry that made Sam almost ashamed by his baiting.

Dean had always looked out for him, had always _always_ put his brother's safety before his own. Sam could only imagine how hard it was for him to suddenly be unable to protect his family, locked away while knowing a killer was out there on the loose.

"I won't go it alone," he reassured his brother and he could almost sense Dean's cautious relief. "Once I get you out of that place we'll finish this together, I promise."

There was a moment's pause in which he anticipated a biting comeback, but surprisingly Dean refrained. "Just watch your back." There was another pause, some muffled talking, before his brother returned. "Guess my call to my hotshot lawyer is up," he said, sounding cocky and dauntless, no doubt for the benefit of whoever was nearby.

It was so typically Dean when he felt under scrutiny or threat, throwing up walls of sarcasm and smart-aleck retorts to deflect any attention, preventing any unwelcome incursions into what was really underneath all that swagger. Sam actually felt sorry for whoever ended up on the end of his brother's quick, sly tongue or foul temper.

The call ended before he could reply, before he could extract a promise from Dean to behave and at least try to get himself declared sane, something Sam wasn't sure any half-way decent psychiatrist would actually do. Hunting full-time wasn't a job for those who wanted normal. It was a crazy, insane gig and Sam believed the hunters themselves had to be a little bit crazy to survive the dangers.

Throwing the Chevy into gear, he pulled out of the gravel lot headed purposefully towards town. Amber's killer was still out there and the town ghost needed to be put to rest, but he was determined he wasn't going to do it alone. He'd get Dean out of the hospital and that meant getting some answers.

END OF CHAPTER SEVEN


	8. Chapter 8

See Chapter One for details… 

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!

A/N: I stole my current muse from another author but she keeps trying to get away. I'll try to keep her tied up this time til the story is done.

OoOoO

_Sane_, Sam had said. He could do sane. Hell, Dean had been faking normal since he'd hauled his baby brother out of their demon-torched home twenty years before.

_Gotta fake it to make it Sammy boy,_ he'd once quipped to his brother, as he'd tried to teach the eleven year old the tricks of the trade. But the kid had been mortified back then at the prospect of lying bare-faced to the cops or store clerks or social workers, the kind of people Sam still addressed as 'sir' in a respectful manner.

Making sure his brother's reluctance had slipped unnoticed under their Dad's radar, Dean had stepped up with the charm-laden smiles, the flash of fake badges, lies that tumbled skilfully from his lips, using a mixture of bullshit and bravado to get their family where it needed to be. It had allowed Sammy to be the good one, the honest one, the one who got good grades and didn't sass back to his teachers.

And in truth Dean didn't mind, because honest sure as hell wasn't going to spring him from his current predicament. Escorted down the stark hallway of the hospitals psychiatric wing, sandwiched between two burly orderlies, he carefully took note of the gated exit, the unblinking camera above it, the sturdy looking guard that was leaning casually against the plexiglass booth, chatting to the woman inside. He hated to admit it, but Sam was right, breaking out was going to be a bitch.

"Just call me Sarah Connor," he murmured to himself, gaze coming to rest on the nurse inside her secure station. She was kinda hot in her white uniform, if only she'd just let down that tight, little bun and…

"What'd you say boy?"

Giving himself a little shake, recalling now wasn't the time or place to be checking out tail, Dean glanced at the guy who had spoken, a fat, balding man in his early forties. His nametag said Jerry and he had the dissatisfied air of a mean little shit in an empty candy store.

With an innocent smile, the retort spilled out before Dean could stop himself. "Just wondering how a guy like you keeps in such great shape Jerry. I mean, spoon feeding loonies must be a real demanding job."

Baldy grabbed his arm in a bruising grip. _Oh yeah, make sure to put the mental patient in his place._ Not like Dean couldn't throw him down and kick the living shit out of him before his buddy pulled him off, but the security guard was watching now. A break for freedom was looking less and less optimistic.

And his sense of claustrophobia was ratcheting up every minute he was trapped in this place, throwing his instincts off balance. He'd faced things that would leave Baldy and his partner gibbering wrecks, but there was that caged feeling, of being pinned down like a bug for inspection, the kind of intimate scrutiny he'd managed to avoid most of his life. If he was honest with himself, he knew he was messed up, damaged goods, but bringing those things into the naked light would be far more devastating than keeping them hidden, buried deep down, enough to be able to get through each day and get the job done.

Baldy dragged him to a stop with a bit more force than was necessary, pudgy fingers digging into tense muscle as he rapped on the door before them. With a weary sigh, Dean recognised Vaughn's voice as he called for them to enter.

"Watch yourself _boy_," Baldy sneered quietly, then thrust him forward through the open doorway.

Unlike the hallway, the office had a sense of warmth, but disappointingly gave Dean little to work with. A wooden chair was bolted to the floor before the desk, the windows meshed on the inside and barred on the out. There wasn't even a pen in sight for crying out loud, just a small computer.

He recognised the man behind the desk instantly, the patronising smile, the sharp, intelligent stare that had Dean rather he was facing down a werewolf or wendigo.

_Sane_, he reminded himself again. He could do sane.

"Dean," Dr Vaughn greeted him, gesturing to the chair. "I thought we might have a little chat."

Dean reluctantly took his seat, hankering for a hospital fire, for Sam to bust in, for a sudden poltergeist attack, anything to get him away from this man.

"And how are we feeling?"

Hackles raised at the condescending tone, he relaxed back in the chair, flashed the man a fake, pleasant smile. "Can't speak for you doc, but I'm just peachy."

Vaughn nodded as if he had expected the reply, then donned his glasses. "Well let's see." He tapped something onto the keyboard, peering at the monitor. "I will be honest with you Dean, I find your case...interesting. Very interesting indeed."

Resisting the urge to lean forward to see what he was reading, Dean calmly folded his hands. "And why is that?" he asked, coolly.

Vaughn relaxed back in his chair, tossing his glasses onto the desk. "After the conversation we had earlier I did a little research. It says here you went into our town library with a shotgun filled with salt? Hardly a weapon of choice for, say, killing a human being."

"Huh. Well then I guess I'm not a danger to people."

Vaughn continued to observe him with that unnerving gaze. "If I recall my mythology correctly…" He glanced at the computer, "salt was a means to purify spirits who remained attached to the Earthly realm." He leaned forward, "You were looking for a ghost weren't you Dean?"

Dean shrugged, abashed. "You're right, you caught me out. I was looking for a ghost. I'd heard the town stories, wanted to check it out. Ask my brother."

"Ah yes, your brother Sam. I've heard a little about him. You were on a road trip together?"

"Still are," he replied, curtly.

"Hmm. So tell me a little about that."

The change of subject caught Dean off-guard but only for the briefest moment. _Mind games_, he reminded himself. "Nothing to tell. It's a lot of country, a lot of miles."

"Any particular stressful situations?"

_The kid, Lucas, half-drowned in his arms, flight 401 taking a nose dive, his brother unloading a round of rocksalt into his chest at point blank range, facing down a reaper, playing chicken with a killer truck..._

Slowly Dean shook his head. "Nothing comes to mind," he said, with his blandest, most innocent facade.

"And why this road trip with your brother in the first place?"

"Sam lost his girlfriend. In a house fire. He needed to do this."

"And you?"

"I'm just looking for my dad."

"And why is that Dean?"

"Just need to find him, make sure he's ok."

"What makes you think he might not be ok?"

_Well let's see, because the last time I saw him he was tracking the demon that burned my mom on the ceiling. _Dean smiled tightly, didn't reply.

"Is it perhaps because your father has a drinking problem?"

"What the hell does that have to do with this?" The angry, bewildered words spilled out before Dean could stop them. The constant questions were grating on already frayed nerves and John Winchester was already a sensitive subject, bruised from Theo's comments the night before.

"Because I'm here to help you." Vaughn appeared kindly, placating, but Dean could see a glint of victory in his eyes, triumph at the slip up.

"You're not here to help me," he shot back, derisively as his temper flared again. Somewhere at the back of his mind, he could hear a distinct, Sam-like sigh, but he shoved it away, leaning forward. "You've already made your judgements. So why don't you let me get back to the nice cosy little cell you've put me in and you can try helping someone who actually cares."

His anger was echoed in Vaughn's eyes, he could see he'd pissed the man off and felt his own surge of triumph. _Not so kind and caring when you don't get your way, doc._

"Perhaps I _should _have you returned to your room," Vaughn said, no sign of the smug smile now, as he reached for the button to summon Baldy and his bud. "Maybe a course of some of our more stringent medication will calm you down enough to be more open to help at our next interview."

"Woah, what? You can't do that!" Dean protested, pushing upright. Confinement was one thing, even if it meant Sam was out there with a killer. He'd figure out how to escape. But drugs...

Vaughn paused, fixing Dean with a cold and insidious stare. "I assure you that I can. It's people like you Dean, wild, out of control children with no sense of morality or moral duty. You need to be controlled as you obviously cannot do it yourself."

He froze at that. A tendril of cold fury unfurled in the pit of his stomach, every muscle in his body stiffening as he raised his eyes to meet the other man's with a dark stare. "What did you just say?"

Because he had the sudden gut feeling he'd been wrong. Sam wasn't out there alone with Colleen and Amber's killer.

He was.

END OF CHAPTER EIGHT


	9. Chapter 9

See Chapter One for details…

Disclaimer: Don't own them, but boy if I did!

OoOoO 

Long legs easily took the steps two at a time, a strange sense of urgency propelling Sam into the house, skidding to a halt inside the doorway as he caught sight of his grandparents in the sitting room. Their friend, Edna Rubins sat across from them, a delicate, china teacup in one thin hand. All three looked up in surprise at his abrupt entrance.

"Sam, we didn't think to expect you back so soon," Molly began, with her usual smile, but it faltered as he strode into the room.

"Tell me," he began, cutting straight to the point, "that you didn't have my brother committed."

And waited for the denial, the shock, the concern. But none of it came. Instead Molly looked frantically to her husband for direction. Theo's gaze behind his wired glasses was firm, implacable and wholly unapologetic and Sam's heart sank.

"Oh no." Shaking his head, disbelieving, Sam moved to tower over to his grandfather. Voice low with outrage, he demanded "How could you do that to him?"

"Sam, please calm down," Molly said. "I know this is difficult for you..."

"Difficult for _me_?" Incredulity verily shone in his tone. "Dean's the one you had _committed_."

"For his own good," Theo stated.

"Grandpa..." Shocked, Sam stared down at the man. "You don't get to make that decision."

"Well someone had to." Sam was forced to take a step back as Theodore Madison struggled slowly to his feet. "It's obvious the boy is a danger. And I'll be damned before I see another member of this family bring disrepute to our name."

The vehement way he spoke, something suddenly, irrevocably clicked inside Sam. "You did this to Mom, didn't you." It wasn't a question, and the way Molly gasped, he knew he'd struck pay dirt. "That was why she stopped speaking to you. You thought you couldn't control her, so what? You had her put away in some mental institution? Just like what you've done to Dean?"

"That's enough!" Theo snapped, just as Molly replied, tentatively, "It wasn't like that Sam."

"Then what was it like?" His anger, his disappointment fuelled his strength to look Theo straight in the eye and not cringe under that furious, paternal glare. "Explain it to me."

"We loved Mary." Molly rose, gently took his arm, and he didn't have the heart to shrug her away. "We didn't send her anywhere, but she needed help. More than what we could give her."

"We got her that help," Theo cut in, brusquely. "The same help Dean will get. And quite frankly son, I'm disappointed."

Sam opened his mouth, ready with a _the feeling is mutual Grandpa_ reply.

"I know what you have in that car."

The words stunned Sam. He closed his mouth and took a step back. What could he honestly say? Enough armaments for a small, Central American coup and a plethora of hunting paraphernalia of the definitely abnormal kind.

Peripherally, he was aware of Edna Rubins setting her cup down and reaching for the purse at her feet, in preparation for taking her leave. But Sam moved, slapping down the photos Danielle Stevens had given him onto the coffee table in front of her, the most direct answer to Theo's challenge that he could give.

"The only thing Dean has tried to do here is find that poor girl's killer," he bit out, pointing at the scattered pictures, "something no one in this town seems interested in."

"That has nothing to do with this situation."

"It has _everything_ to do with it Grandpa," Sam shot back, and he was suddenly, furiously angry at the injustice of it all. "Dean was right. People, they bury their heads in the sand, they don't want to know the truth. And a girl is dead..."

The hitch in his voice caught him by surprise. _A girl is dead_. Jess, Mom, Amber, Colleen. Just as Molly and Theo didn't want to know the truth about their daughter, this small, unassuming town didn't want to know the truth about what it harboured, what it kept hidden.

"She's dead," he repeated. His voice sounded strangely small, like it had that night when he'd said those same words to Dean. Standing outside the blazing college building, the smell of fire, of burning remains forever etched into his memory. God it had been nearly a year now since Jess' death and it could still sucker punch him like this, leave his stomach hollow, his heart aching like some old battle wound.

He felt Molly reach for his hand. "We understand dear," she tried.

"No." He shook his head, giving her a small, sad smile. Only now did he realise what Dean had been trying to tell him all along. It wasn't his pig headed nature that had made his brother so reluctant to let their extended family back into their lives. When things became so very black and white, straddling that fence between normal and insane was no longer an option. Looking down at where his grandmother was clasping his hand, he spoke gently, "Until you open your eyes, until you're willing to see the truth, you're never going to understand. You're never going to understand Dean. Or me."

And perhaps there was a glimmer of something in Molly's sympathetic eyes, some spark of awareness, of shame even.

"This is nonsense," Theo huffed, effectively ending the moment and his grandfather strode away, only to halt by the dining room table, leaning a heavy hand onto its surface. "Next you'll be spouting that supernatural nonsense, just like your father…"

_And what? You'll have me committed too?_ Sam didn't say the words though, seeing how hard his grandfather was suffering. His health hadn't been great the last few years though he hid it well.

"I don't...I don't understand."

The tremulous voice of Edna Rubins drew Sam's gaze from his grandfather, to see the woman holding onto one of the photos he'd thrown down, her face pale, a papery hand pressed to her mouth.

Frowning, Sam moved carefully to her side, titling his head to see what had distressed the woman. It was a picture of the smiling, partying Amber, the one that had grabbed and held his attention back at the diner with the sheer life in her eyes. But Edna Rubins reached out to touch the silver, crescent-shaped locket decorating the dead girl's throat.

She slowly raised her eyes to Sam, bewildered, and gone was the formidable woman they had met the previous day. She appeared small, frail, _old_, as she spoke a name. "Howard?"

OoOoO

Prowling before the desk, Dean's fingers itched for a weapon, calculating the maximum damage he could do with his fists alone, reasoning it would be good enough for a scum bag murderer. Vaughn remained seated, giving him a cold, reptilian glare that had a whole new meaning now.

"You sick sonofabitch," Dean accused, darkly. He knew in his gut he was right, that this man had murdered Colleen and Amber and allowed a kid to be executed for his crime. If Vaughn gave him an excuse, he'd demonstrate just how dangerous his control issues really were.

"I think we've established that you are the sick one, Dean," Vaughn retorted. "You can either sit down now or I will call for those gentlemen who brought you here and we'll begin your drug treatment right away."

"Why did you do it Vaughn, huh?" Dean asked softly, dangerously. "Why kill your own daughter?"

And the amusement was gone as Vaughn paled, looking stricken. "You're delusional," he stated, hastily. "I would never, never have…"

"No?" Dean cut him off again. He leaned forward, palms pressed to the desk, looming over the man. "That's not what she told me last night."

"I take that back, you're _insane_," Vaughn spat, rising to his own feet.

"That's right," Dean hissed back. "I am." The look of fear that arose on the doctor's face was almost worth it. "So why? Was she out of control? Wouldn't do as daddy told her?"

"I...you..." Vaughn spluttered, clearly at a loss.

It hadn't been so long ago Dean had told Sam he didn't understand people, that they were just plain nuts. It was far easier to deal with the monsters they encountered night after night. A silver bullet, a salt-laden shotgun, some gasoline, maybe a ritual or two and they were gone by morning. For most of the supernatural creatures, it was simply in their nature to do harm, an instinct to kill or some hotbed of leftover emotion. Some of it was truly, scarily evil, demonic stuff, but for the most part it was like putting down animals gone bad.

But for a man to murder his own daughter, his own family, then to kill again in such a brutal manner, well, that was a whole nother kind of evil in Dean's book.

And he saw it, in the man's eyes, the confession, that cold, unrepentant sneer. Whatever Vaughn saw reflected back was enough to finally make him break. He grabbed for something under his desk, a silent alarm no doubt.

"I need some help in…!" he began yelling, before Dean was on him.

Grabbing the doctor's lapels he dragged him around the desk and shoved him backwards over it, punching the man once, twice, a third time, knuckles cracking Vaughn's glasses, the sight of blood only fuelling his outrage. Vaughn's struggles began to wane, kicking feebly.

Dean drew back his arm again, but hesitated, suddenly disgusted at the pitiful moans, the way the coward tried to defend his face, blood smearing across his cheeks, the muttered 'please' and 'stop'.

Grabbing Vaughn by his shirt, Dean hauled him upright so they were face to face. "Did they beg too?" he growled, giving the man a shake. "Did they cry?"

Vaughn didn't reply as the door burst open, the orderlies, the guard taking in the scene before them.

"He murdered his daughter," Dean had time to blurt, in his anger stupidly forgetting where he was, what they thought he was.

He was tackled roughly, manhandled away from Vaughn, hard hands bruising his arms, his shoulders. His bare foot caught against the chair and he stumbled, only to find himself shoved face first into the wall. A second later, before he could turn, defend himself, he felt the guard's baton crack against his skull.

"...a psychotic break," he heard Vaughn's frantic voice, as he slid down the wall, legs suddenly boneless. "...delusional...

Dean took a breath, tried to clear his darkening vision, tried to tell them the truth, but nothing was co-operating. _Idiot_, he swore at himself, _always _always_ watch your back._

Semi-conscious, he was dragged roughly out of the room, head lolling between his shoulders, the floor blurred and somewhere at the back of his mind he bitterly wondered if getting two knocks to the head in as many days was some kind of personal record.

He couldn't help the moan that escaped as they hefted him onto a hard mattress, tried to will his weak limbs to co-ordinate properly as he felt restraints round his wrists, ankles.

_God_. He'd joked to Sam earlier that day. He couldn't be helpless, not now, not with Vaughn and what he knew Dean knew. He fought against the invasive hands, desperate, but he could barely open his eyes without the room spinning, without his stomach threatening to disgorge it's spare contents.

"He..." Dean coughed, tried again, but his voice was faint, weak and cracked. "Listen to me."

"Sssh," he heard Vaughn soothe from somewhere to his right. "It's alright Dean. We're here to help you."

So the good doctor routine was back now that Dean was strapped down. He surged against the restraints, fuelled by fear of what Vaughn could do to him like this, but nothing gave.

"You can go now," he heard Vaughn say, and Dean raised his head, tried to plead with them to stay, to not leave him alone, but he couldn't find the air, the strap around his chest too tight. "Yes, yes I'll be fine, just some bruising."

He let his head thump down to the pillow, squeezing his eyes shuts and swallowing heavily against the urge to throw up as the bright lights above sent searing needles through his brain.

Only to snap his eyes open again as he felt Vaughn take a seat at the side of the bed. Without his glasses, the doctor appeared different, less clinical, and Dean took some satisfaction in his swollen nose, the flecks of blood decorating the front of his sterile overcoat.

"You won't..." he began, but cut off the unforgivably lame 'get away with this'. Instead he settled for watching the man, tense and waiting.

Vaughn took out a handkerchief, dabbed at his nose, checked the swath of material before re-pocketing it. "I'm not an evil man," he began, not looking at Dean, gazing instead at his hands.

Dean couldn't hold back his snort of disbelief, rolling his eyes. "Tell it to Oprah. Or better yet the cops."

Vaughn ignored him. "You wanted to know why and I think...yes I think you deserve to hear the truth." The doctor straightened, nodded to himself. "Colleen was my only child and I loved her, very much. But she had to be taught, to be shown that her disobedience was wicked. That boy would never love her, not the way I loved her..."

The way he spoke of his love sent spidery shivers crawling up Dean's spine. It felt wrong on so many levels.

Vaughn looked at him now, squinting slightly. "I sent her to God Dean," as if that was all the explanation he needed.

"Yeah right," Dean breathed out, slumping back against the pillows, wrists twisting against the leather. "She was pregnant. But you knew that."

"Her wickedness was out of control. I had to do something before it was too late."

As if that explained everything. Maybe to someone as messed up as Vaughn, it did. He didn't even ask Dean how he knew about the baby.

"And Amber. That was you too wasn't it."

"Amber..." and there was some soft regret. "She was a weakness, I'll confess. I tried so many times to help her, to punish her. But she wouldn't listen. She tried to run away, I couldn't have that. I couldn't have that on my conscience, knowing the sin she would spread."

"You're one fucked up psycho, you do realise that," Dean stated, matter of fact, unable to help himself, then flinched when Vaughn rose.

"You remind me of your mother, Dean," the doctor said, simply. "But unlike my daughter, unlike Amber, I helped her before the devil could take her."

Gaping like an idiot, Dean shook his head to rid it of the image of his mother in a place like this. "Don't you talk about my mom," he snarled, angrily. "You don't know anything about her!"

"But I do." To anyone else, Vaughn's serene smile would have been comforting. Instead it creeped the hell out of Dean. "Your grandparents, they sent her to me, to heal her, make her whole and without sin. Just as they've sent you."

"You're lying," he bit back. He couldn't even imagine...no, no way could they have done this to his mother.

"But you're already too far gone, aren't you Dean," Vaughn was saying, as he turned away, began fiddling with something over by the table. "But I can still help. I can still save your soul."

Dean strained to look, tried to prepare himself for whatever Vaughn was going to do to him. The idea of Sam finding him tied up and carved out was enough to make him struggle furiously against the restraints.

"I forgive you your actions against me," Vaughn continued, his calmness somehow more terrifying than anything else. "I understand, I do Dean, you cannot help this evil inside of you. But I can release you from it, from all your sins."

He turned around, held something sharp and glinting to the light, tapped on the syringe.

"Oh no, no, no, don't do this!" Dean yelled, as his sleeve was drawn up, fingers clawing into the mattress as he felt Vaughn stab the needle into his arm. "Someone help me! Help!"

"I am, I will," Vaughn promised, withdrawing the syringe.

And Dean felt it hit him, felt the wooziness in his already aching head, the way his struggling limbs were turning leaden. He fought it with everything he had. His father had once commented that his son never knew when to back down, to stop fighting, and Dean had always thought one day he'd die like that, blaze of glory, taking as many sons of bitches with him when he went.

But never in his darkest, fatalistic moments had he thought it would be like this, quietly, softly.

"You don't have to do this," he pleaded, voice little more than a whisper. He couldn't bear the thought of Sammy finding him like this, not like this.

"The problem with this type of sedative," Vaughn ignored him, his voice sounding as if it were coming through thick glass, "is that in very rare cases it can cause a seizing of the airway." He reached and lifted Dean's head gently, then slid out the pillow from underneath.

Holding it in his hands, he murmured something which sounded like a prayer. Eyes drooping, Dean knew he was losing the fight. The pillow loomed above him, pressing down over his nose, his mouth, cutting off his air.

As the darkness covered his eyes, smothered his breaths, somewhere in the distance he thought he heard Sam call his name.

END OF CHAPTER NINE


End file.
